


A Haldane in Winter

by phoenixgal



Category: Deryni Chronicles - Katherine Kurtz
Genre: M/M, Original Character(s), Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-19 23:37:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 37,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8228618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixgal/pseuds/phoenixgal
Summary: More than a century after Kelson's time, there are plenty of Haldanes, but with an ailing heir and a brother on the outs with his father, the succession is unclear. Can Prince Augustin secure his place in line for the throne or will his close friendship with the king of Torenth be his undoing? And how will the Twelve Kingdoms respond to a threat of war from the south?





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old, old (ancient!) fic I wrote back when I was rereading the Deryni books (much loved in my youth) and several history books about the Crusades and Richard the Lionhearted. I always thought it would be interesting to see Gwynedd fast forwarded into the later Middle Ages or even the Renaissance - periods that interest me more than the earlier Middle Ages setting that inspired the works. Augustin is his own character, but he has a good dose - I hope - of King Richard's charisma and flaws. The title is obviously a reference to The Lion in Winter (a Haldane lion!), and there is a good bit of dynastic struggle going on here, but it's not exactly directly congruous.
> 
> I know this fandom isn't super active, but hopefully someone out there will enjoy this. I think if I wrote it now, I'd do it differently, but that's okay. I originally had planned out and wrote snippets of a second act that was much more centered on the Crusades and a third that went another twenty years down the road and had some Renaissance inspired themes. I doubt I'll ever get back to those, but I think this bit stands alone.
> 
> Apologies for the laziness of not breaking up the chapters and for any formatting errors occurring from me slapping this up without going through it to really fix it up (not to mention any other errors, no beta, so those are all on me). Obviously not my world, gratefully borrowing it from Ms. Kurtz.

Chapter One

Augustin scowled as he left the archery range. It was only mid-morning and it had already been a long day, and promised to be a longer one to come. Why he had ever allowed that bully of a cousin, Bevan Haldane, to goad him into a little friendly competition that morning, he would never know. It had, of course, ended poorly. There probably hadn’t been a good outcome possible anyway. If Augustin had thrown the match, Bevan would have accused him of throwing it. If he had not, then Bevan would have had just as big a tantrum over the idea that Augustin had somehow used Deryni trickery to win. Without thinking, Augustin chose accusation of Deryni trickery and instantly regretted it. Better that Beven’s ego be fed a little by winning.

Too many cousins! That was the problem. Kings, Augustin decided, ought to secure their successions and then stop breeding. There was only so much land to go around and income to bring in. And without something to do, cousins like Bevan simply languished at court until they got knighted or, if they were girls, got married. Then, if they were knights, they just languished some more unless there was a war.

Well, perhaps there would be a war. That was a chilling thought. But the Moors seemed to be ever advancing, having organized and taken much of the eastern lands that once owed allegiance to Beldour as well as having made arrays into the deserts south. There was talk even as far south and west as Bremange and the Forcinn that the advance of Muslim religion had crept forward.

Well, no wonder, Augustin thought, scowling again as he passed the cathedral on his way back to his quarters. The corruption seemed rampant of late. He wished his father could find a way to control Archbishop Burne. How Burne had ever advanced to the purple, much less become primate was a mystery to Augustin. Well, perhaps the mystery was not as complex as all that. But Burne’s advancement certainly bespoke corruption at all levels of the church. How else could such a disreputable priest have risen so far?

When he reached his quarters, he found his brother outside lingering with two squires. Ah, the day could only get longer!

“Where have you been?” the crown prince of Gwynedd demanded as Augustin approached.

“About,” Augustin replied, opening the door to his rooms. “I spent the morning practicing my archery, Allard.”

Allard snorted a laugh at his brother. “As if you needed to practice. More likely, one of the cousins goaded the great Prince Augustin into a match. Who was it? Kellen?”

“Bevan.”

“Of course. What a spoiled brat.”

“Are you referring to myself or Bevan, dear bro?”

Allard shot him a spiteful look, and with another, bade the squires wait outside, closing the doors.

Augustin slumped into a chair, brushing his almost shaggy black hair out of his face. His brother’s gray as steel eyes met his from where he now leaned against the wall.

“I rather need you not to be such a spoiled child at the moment, Gus,” Allard proclaimed.

Augustin promptly spun himself out of the chair. “What do you want, Allard?”

“It isn’t what I want. It’s what father wants.”

“I’m tired of hearing all his requests secondhand.”

“And you think I enjoy playing the emissary between the two of you?”

Augustin now leaned back against the wall opposite the door, putting a great deal of space between himself and his brother. He hated this sort of verbal sparring with his brother. He supposed it was preferable to the shouting matches between himself and his father. The two of them hadn’t spoken in more than a year. They were hardly together in public. The feud between them was hardly private.

“Just get to the point,” he muttered.

“He wants you to marry Linette of Meara.”

Augustin decided that he needed to sit down yet again. He found his chair and threw himself down. “Allard, you know…”

“Reece is dying and we need a new viceroy in Meara.”

“Why not confirm Duke Quinlen?”

“Father feels that marriage to Reece’s daughter would make a better claim for the Mearans. Besides, he wants another Haldane married to Mearan blood.”

“There haven’t been serious rumblings in Meara since Kelson’s time,” Augustin pointed out.

“Perhaps not, but…”

“But father wants me out of the way?”

“That’s not fair,” Allard said.

“Oh? Now it’s viceroy of Meara. In the winter, he was trying to usher me into the priesthood…”

“Better repentant than…”

“There are other reasons why I should not be viceroy of Meara,” Augustin cut in.

“Thank you for inquiring after my health,” Allard said. “But I feel fine. I think what you meant to say is that there are other reasons you should not marry.”

Augustin leaned back in his chair. “Get out, Allard,” he hissed.

With a mock bow, his brother twirled out to the door, stopping just short of slamming it behind him.

Augustin himself had to break off his own impulse to throw the nearest thing to him at the door after his brother. But then Konnie’s words rang in his ears, “Just wait and bide your time.”

But it was hard, especially without Konnie around. As much as he hated to admit it, he had become much like the unending multitudes of Haldane cousins at court with nothing better to do but joust and play at tournaments. In Beldour, he had at least had something to do and could be at Konstantine’s side. In Torenth, he had a place and a great deal of respect. Here, he was nothing more than the younger son, dashing and therefore begging to be challenged for his reputation.

It was all the more frustrating for the huge amount of work he saw around him begging to be done. Some of it was general. There were economic and judicial issues that Augustin worried no one had really reconsidered in more than a century and were ripe for reform. But much more immediately, there was the increasing Moorish threat due to the ongoing fighting in Torenth. While Gwynedd hadn’t been directly affected yet, as what had become a slow war of attrition continued, Augustin had trouble seeing any way Gwynedd could avoid getting drawn in. So far, Konstantine had been content enough to let Torenth’s ally sit on the sidelines, but that couldn’t last forever. To some extent, Konstantine was also biding his time, waiting for the chance for Augustin to become king.

Which brought forward another issue facing the eleven kingdoms: Allard’s failing health. The Haldane crown prince looked well enough, but it was widely known that his appearance was somewhat misleading in this sense. Some days, he might seem entirely normal, spending the whole day at work and even attending dinner at the table with his father. But other days, he might not make it past noon before he had to retire to bed. And occasionally, whole weeks might be spent in bed. Allard literally might not have the energy to get up and walk across the room. He had always tired easily. He was quick to catch any cold and slow to recover. Even a slight wound might bleed profusely on Allard. As a result, from the time he was young, Allard had not had to participate in the typical rites of youth. He had been a page, but never a squire. At his eighteenth birthday, he had been knighted anyway. Nothing else would do for the man who would one day be king, whether he could wield a sword or not. But many worried that Prince Allard Rhys Haldane would never be king of Gwynedd. His illnesses did not seem to be getting any better, perhaps even worse. And even if he did become king, others feared that whatever illness Allard held would be inextricably passed to his children, forever tainting the Haldane bloodline.

For years, the healers had looked for a cure to Allard’s condition without success. Augustin feared that there was no cure. When he tired, no amount of even Deryni induced rest seemed to help him.

Augustin, feeling peevish about the encounter with his brother, called his squire, Guine, in to help him undress. It was late enough in the day, he decided, to don clothes for dinner and get out of his spurs. He might even go down to the chapel to find Gwen, whom he considered to be his only friend in Rhemuth.

When he arrived at the chapel offices, he found Gwen McLain, as she often was, surrounded by piles of books and scrolls, the veil from her habit cast aside on a nearby chair. The stone room was lit by candles all around, and hung with tapestries. This was Father Corey’s offices, but as he was frequently away from Rhumeth, Gwen had set herself up there almost permanently.

“What text has you engrossed at the moment, Sister?” Augustin asked as he entered.

Gwen hardly looked up to smile at him, though he felt no slight at her lack of notice. She was almost always this serious with everyone. The fact that she had twitched her lips at his entrance was enough to let him know he was welcome.

Without her headpiece and veil, her auburn rich hair framed her pale, freckled face and green eyes. She had it, as usual, pulled back into a thick plait that ran down past her shoulders. She was almost exactly the same age as Augustin and her tiny frame gave the impression of a sort of beautiful frailty. In reality, Augustin knew, she had always contained a surprising inner strength, not to mention a personality that few would of the men at court would have called beautiful. For her work as a healer, she needed that strength. She was too young to be nice as she worked. She knew she needed only to be listened to.

“Did you know Conner was renovating the old castle on the Transhan lands?” she asked, still reading the book in front of her.

“No. I didn’t think your family spent much time there these days.”

“They don’t. But Conner has in mind for Fergus to go there and manage the lands. It’s been a sticky situation, those MacArdry lands. In any case, the castle has hardly been lived in for more than a generation so Conner is having it renovated.”

“And the books are…”

“As they began clearing out some of the rooms, Conner discovered a whole packaged up library that seems to have belonged to my illustrious ancestor, Dhugal. I’m reading some of the texts he had on healing. Some contain his own notes. He had horrendous handwriting, I might add.”

“Sounds engrossing.”

“No, it doesn’t. Not to you anyway. What’s on your mind?” Gwen gestured idly toward the chair containing her veil. Almost as an afterthought, she picked it up and arranged it on her head.

“Father wants me to marry Linette Ramsay.”

“And become the new Mearan viceroy. Yes, I had heard.”

“Allard told you.”

“Yes, when I saw him this morning.”

“Was he not feeling well?”

“Does he ever feel well?” Gwen asked, with a sigh. “But no, he wasn’t feeling any worse than usual.”

“Any progress on that front?”

“None. Sometimes I feel we know so little about any of our abilities, and of healing we know the least of all. When I go to help him, I sense the problem but I can never seem to reach it. Heal it and it simply comes back.”

“Sister, what should I do?”

“Why do you come to me for advice, Gus?” Gwen asked. “You know what I must tell you.”

“You think I ought to marry her? I’m told she’s quite intelligent, which is, I suppose, a way of saying she’s quite plain.”

“Does it matter?” Gwen asked. “And no, I don’t think you should marry Linette Ramsay. You cannot be the Mearan viceroy; we both know that. You have to be available for when the inevitable happens to Allard. Even if, by some divine miracle, he manages to live, you are needed here in Rhemuth in the long run. Gwynedd needs your brilliance, your expertise, your military training…”

“I don’t feel needed at the moment.”

Gwen ignored his comment and continued. “But I do think you should marry, and soon. God…”

“Gwen, I…”

“No, Gus. Don’t come to me for advice and then not listen.”

“I’ll marry when it’s necessary. When I have a succession to guarantee.”

Gwen shook her head. “I wouldn’t say such things so loudly if I were you.”

“There’s no one about, Gwen. Where’s Father Corey?”

“He went to see about a patient in Desse. He’s been working himself too hard of late.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Gwen sighed again. “Was there anything else? I… I have a lot to do before tonight.”

“Council meeting late?” Augustin asked, raising an eyebrow.

She nodded silently.

Augustin shook his head and rose. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Sister,” he said.

“At mass?” she asked, hopefully.

Augustin nodded, the sort of nod that did not indicate a clear answer, and left the office.

 

Chapter Two

Gwen went back to reading through the notes in the margins. Some of the books had been waterlogged at some point in the past hundred and fifty years, meaning that several whole sections had disintegrated. It was disappointing to say the least. It was also hard on the eyes. As the sun got lower in the sky, she considered conjuring handfire to read by, but then decided that she didn’t want to spare the expense. She would have to go hopping around by portal. Besides, she had lost the concentration and it was almost time for evening prayers.

Gwen arranged her habit and left to hear the evening prayers. Shortly thereafter, she made her way back to the small chapel adjacent to Father Corey’s offices. There, in the chapel, she found the stone pattern and stepped onto it. Below her feet, she felt it tingle with power as she accessed the matrix. Envisioning her destination, she closed her eyes, said a word and vanished.

Her stomach gave a lurch and when she opened her eyes, she saw the low lit room adjacent to her already occupied.

Barely twenty-five years old, Gwen was aware of her tenuous position within the Camberian Council. She was also aware of the ways in which her position at the Schola, in constant contact with the Servants of Saint Camber, put her in yet another shaky situation. They would not have fully approved of the work of the Council. But then, she had not joined their order with good reason. She had not wanted to put herself into a position where her loyalties were in conflict. And the fact that she would succeed her father on the Council had long been expected, if not that she would do so at such a young age, making her the youngest member in Council history.

Of course, despite her tender years, she could not be described as inexperienced, either in life or magical workings. She knew she could hold her own with this group of high powered Deryni. She only wished sometimes they wouldn’t forget that.

Lively, if divided, discussion was already going by the time she took her seat. Already, Gwen could see Oran d’Horme chatting with Mariette in her silky blue. Lanthan and Nikolaus Orenski seemed to be having some sort of minor argument. As Gwen found her seat, settling herself, she exchanged a smile with James Killey, who sat as co-adjutator with Mariette de Chapellone. The look seemed to say simply, welcome, and managed to put her at least a little more at ease than she often was in this eclectic group.

Mariette brought the meeting swiftly to order, bringing forward old business and wrapping up previous topics. But as usual, the conversation soon turned to the problems between Allard, Augustin and King Roydon and the problem of the succession of Haldane power and throne.

The conversation was worn out before it even began. Each player might have been summed up in any comment made half a dozen times previously.

“Allard is simply too weak to rule, and not merely physically,” Oran d’Horme complained.

“Augustin can hardly be called fit when he’s followed by such scandal,” Mariette de Chapellone said.

“We have to consider the destabilizing force of the holy war in the south. Already, Torenth is driven north of the Beldour and may never regain Arjenol,” Nikolaus stated.

“Have we no new information regarding Allard’s condition?” Lanthan Pryce asked. “Do we know whether the Moors have moved their troops north out of Lukys yet?”

“We must make Roydon see how absurdly stubborn he’s being,” Noel lamented. “Doesn’t he see that, regardless of this petty feud, he needs Augustin’s expertise on the situation in Torenth. It threatens his own throne. That’s why he sent him to foster there in the first place.”

“Not as a gift to King Konstantine?” Fenton Gregory quipped to Noel’s remark.

Mariette was obviously shocked by the comment, but allowed it to pass. Her own position on Augustin was well known. James Killey, on the other hand, refused to stay silent.

“Councilors, be silent. This dialogue does not become us. And is a worn path besides,” he added. “Nikolaus, is there anything new to report about the war in Torenth?”

“Things are still at a quiet standstill, I’m afraid,” Nikolaus Orenski explained. “Our position has not changed in nearly a year. There was an outbreak of fighting three days ago along the Beldour near to Arkadia…”

“So far north?” Noel asked.

“The fighting has long been so far north, I must report,” Nikolaus said. “However, there have been no major battles. My lord Konstantine does not send his army to chase them and they send no more than mere children to pester us periodically. We have reports from the Hort of Orsal that the situation is much the same on his borders. Konstantine expects reports from his spies within the next few days. Things have been unusually quiet for awhile now. Still, that in and of itself does not mean anything. Things have been quiet for months and then slowly picked up again. Other times things have seemed to explode out of the quiet. We shall see.”

“Thank you, Lord Nikolaus,” James said calmly. “And Sister Gwen, do you have news for us from Rhemuth?”

Gwen expelled a short breath. “Roydon wants Augustin to marry Linette of Meara and become his new viceroy there. It is yet another ploy to be rid of Augustin in a respectable manner.”

Fenton gave a snort from across the table.

“And what does Augustin think of this plan?” Oran asked.

“He is, obviously, openly against it. He said as much to me this evening.”

“Is it such a horrible plan?” Mariette asked. “He has too much ambition to stay in Rhemuth. Roydon must find something for him to do. And better he be married off anyway. Linette Ramsay is supposed to be a solid girl.”

“But there is much for him to do in Rhemuth,” Noel argued.

“But while he remains in Rhemuth, his popularity, and therefore our problem, can only grow. He is simply too charismatic,” Lanthan pointed out.

“Enough,” James said. “There is no way Augustin will agree to this proposal. Am I correct, Gwen?”

“Absolutely not. Even Allard recognized it was a bad idea, despite the fact that he outwardly tried to convince his brother otherwise.”

“But if Allard thought it a good idea, wouldn’t he at least be showing some backbone?” Lanthan complained. “Should we really praise the fact that he recognizes and then acquiesces when it comes to Augustin’s popularity? I should think we would want to encourage Allard to find a way to be rid of his brother once and for all.”

“Are you suggesting that Allard find some way for Augustin to meet an accident?” Oran asked, shocked.

“No,” Gwen said quickly. “That’s out of the question! The succession would be too complicated. I am not at all convinced that Allard can have children at all. His health may prevent it.”

A hush fell through the room for a moment.

“How long have you believed this?” Noel, the most silent member of the group, asked.

“It is merely an intuition,” Gwen cautioned. “But I have long suspected it. It is not without precedence either. We know that an extended illness, especially in childhood, may render a man incapable of producing an offspring.”

“Is there any proof?” Fenton asked. “He’s hardly a child. Does anyone know if Allard has had a mistress?”

Gwen shook her head. “I don’t know. Of course,” she said, “I’m hardly his confessor, merely his healer. And he does not entirely trust me. He suspects I would support Augustin for the throne, were it up to me.”

“But if Allard cannot have children, then the throne would fall to Augustin regardless,” Mariette said quietly. “Or, if Allard lived a long and happy life, to Augustin’s children.”

Fenton gave a laugh. “Augustin’s children? Does that seem any more likely?”

“Well it certainly doesn’t seem likely that Allard will live a long and healthy life,” Oran pointed out. “Not even Gwen can save him, I fear.”

“I fear not, as well, Oran,” Gwen said.

The meeting seemed to have run its course after that. There was little new for the members to mull over, but plenty to keep under their considerations. Fenton made, at the end, his obligatory unkind statement to the rest of them about their inability to get anything done. As usual, James Killey made placating remarks toward the Connaiti lordling before he broke the meeting.

“Lord forgive my intolerance of him,” Gwen complained afterward to James, lingering in the chamber. She spoke in whispers, for the eerie violet light of the room always made things seem rather solemn there. They were the last two left there – the oldest and the youngest members of the Council, its most recent addition and its longest sitting member.

“Intolerant?” James asked, raising a gray eyebrow. “Sister, I don’t think anyone could call you intolerant. You who tolerate King Roydon and Prince Allard and even, though you be devoted to the religious life, Prince Augustin.”

“Uncle Jamie,” she sighed, “you know I meant my frustration with Fenton Gregory.”

“He is rather crass at times,” James conceded. “But I think, Gwen, you have had to put up with much worse. Consider him like a particularly irritable patient, one who refuses to admit he’s sick, even on his deathbed. One who refuses to take the medicine, despite its saving effects.”

“And what, pray tell, is the medicine?”

“I have faith that you’ll find us a cure,” James said.

 

Chapter Three

Augustin felt the worst part about being in exile in Rhemuth was the loneliness. Having been sent off to Beldour to squire at such a young age, he found his dearest friends, with a few exceptions, were all there. And his feud with his father had made making new allies at court almost impossible. His rivalry with Allard was hardly a friendship. And the half dozen or so Haldane cousins who hung about at court were careful not to get too close to him.

Nor could he find much solace in religion as his frustrations about the corruption of the clergy were well known. As were his own unrepented sins. Gwen’s request that she see him at mass when she knew he avoided it was simply an effort at annoyance. He might go, though, perhaps merely to throw her off guard.

The loneliness was merely reinforced by the fact that he was universally noticed and even admired. His cousins were careful not to form too close a friendship with him, but they all wrested for the chance to beat him at swordplay or archery or any of his many skills. There was no better horseman than him at court. There was no better hunter. No one could joust as well as he. No one at court could best him at much any skills as a knight.

Of course, there were other skills in life. There were better scholars, better dancers, better poets, better engineers, better farmers. But even in these matters, Augustin’s talents were not too modest.

With more esoteric powers, he was skilled as well, having studied almost entirely at the feet of masters in Torenth. Nor had Konstantine himself been a poor teacher. While he was only a few scant years older than Augustin, King Konstantine had the benefit of the Furstan legacy as well as his own, quite undiluted Deryni bloodline. It was these talents that made him especially feel distant from much of the Rhemuth court. With the exception of the McLains, Thayer Coris and his own cousins, the court was still almost entirely human. Even the existence of the Deryni schola and the shrine to Saint Camber so nearby was not much of a help. It seemed to Augustin at least that all the activity there was religious rather than secularly interested. Not that there was anything wrong with that in his mind. But he did not tend to see his own powers entirely in that light.

As Augustin called in Guine, he made a decision that he would attend mass and said as much to his squire, who began quickly laying out his clothes. He appreciated the way in which the boy always did without question and never seemed nervous in his presence. Augustin supposed that, had he been a squire from as far away as Claibourne, bid to serve as infamous as prince as himself, he might have been much more skittish than young Guine.

As he had slept through the early mass, he had managed to miss his father and brother. At the second, he lined up to receive communion from Father Corey, who gave a light touch to his mind as he rose, not even pausing in his actions.

A surprise to see you here, he said dryly.

Perhaps you want to think twice about allowing me to receive? Augustin retorted.

But Father Corey merely said, Stay and meet me after the mass. I have missives from Beldour that would interest you.

Augustin walked away from communion and back to his seat, pausing automatically to kneel and cross himself, carrying a smile that had nothing to do with the magic of the Holy Spirit he had just encountered.

Back in Corey’s office, he found the priest with one of his colleagues, removing his vestments. Father O’Shea saw the prince approach and exchanged a glance with Corey of which Augustin had trouble interpreting the meaning. But he found all sorts of glances and comments easy enough to ignore.

“Good day, your highness,” Father O’Shea said to Augustin as he ducked out of the office.

“Did you have something for me?” Augustin asked with a smile.

Moving toward his desk, Father Corey nodded. “It’s a mere note. A mutual friend wanted you to know you’re needed, however briefly, in Torenthaly.”

Reaching out his hand, Augustin took the proffered piece of paper sealed in red wax. The seal had already been broken and bits of the wax fell loose in his hand as he unfolded the paper.

“Sister Gwen is away today,” Father Corey said. “So you have nothing to fear of her catching you away.”

“Tending a patient?” Augustin asked.

“In Llannedd. Queen Isolde is dying.”

“She’ll be away awhile then. I know of no portals anywhere in Llannedd or Howicce.”

“Nor do we,” Corey admitted. “But Gwen goes where the Lord bids her heal.”

Augustin glanced at the adjoining chapel that held the portal he so desperately wanted to use to escape the pettiness and emptiness Rhemuth held for him. He could almost feel the tingle of the pattern below his feet simply by looking at the square.

“Not yet,” Corey cautioned briskly as he began rapidly reorganizing the piles of papers and scrolls on his desk. Small vials containing various medicinal drugs and substances also covered the desk, almost like an apothecary shop. Father Corey began shuffling those about as well, hardly looking up to see the prince. “Follow the instructions Brother Janos left you, your highness. I’ve just pointed out to you that my chapel will be unoccupied for several days. However, if your rooms go unoccupied for a similar amount of time, it will not escape his majesty’s notice. Pray remember that you are no longer a page, able to disobey his father and steal away like a child. You are a grown man. And to disobey your father might easily be seen as treason.”

Augustin gave a shrug. “I’ll return this evening.” He then left the offices without a further word.

As he made his way through the courtyard, in his distracted state, he nearly tripped over a child running in his path. While he avoided collision, he saw out of the corner of his eye a tumble of lace and skirts and turned to see his niece fall bottom first onto the grass. With a swoop, he reached down and picked her up, setting her on her feet again. Within moments, his sister stood at his side.

“Lexie, say thank you to his highness,” Megan instructed.

The girl simply moved her head aside, looking down at the ground.

Glancing around, Augustin now saw that Megan had both her children with her. Young Prince Richard also stood beside his mother.

Both children were unmistakably Haldane, though they did not carry that name and their mother, with her green eyes and soft brown hair, might not have been picked out as related so directly to either Allard or Augustin. Quite simply, she was the image of their mother. But her children, on the other hand, had that pale skin and jet black hair that characterized their uncles.

It was no wonder that Lexie shied away from him. He hardly knew his niece and nephew. Richard, he knew, would be old enough to be a page soon. The children and Megan herself were almost always at court. Their father had always doted on Megan. When she had made a match of affection with the Earl of Carcashale at the young age of seventeen, there had been no question of whether she would get her way. Augustin could not help but reflect that, considering the political situation, she might have made a more useful match for Gwynedd somewhere else. Still, she was happy and able to spend much of her time in Rhemuth, often taking the duties of queen since the death of her mother so many years earlier. Megan also, in the way that women could, neatly avoided the political struggles that plagued her princely brothers.

“Good morning, dear sister,” Augustin said, smiling at her.

Soon, she was joined by several of her ladies in waiting, all of whom gathered around the prince, a couple offering tentative compliments and words about the weather. For several minutes, Augustin was pulled into mindless chatter with the women about a number of topics, in particular the upcoming marriage of one of his Haldane cousins. Though it was almost a month away, since court was no longer in session, there was little else to discuss in the way of gossip.

By the time he got away, he knew he needed a break from the whole city. Taking the quickest route to the stables, he called for his horse, Dusk, to be brought so he could go for a ride far away.

It was brooding, Augustin had to admit. There was no other way to put it. He was torn between wanting to chide himself for the sin of wallowing and wanting to recognize that he really did have something of a miserable plight.

By the time he rode back inside the castle walls, the sun having given its last light already, he realized that he would have no time to eat a bite of supper as he had originally intended. No matter, he would have a chance to rinse his face from the smell of the stables. And there would most likely be food as he preferred awaiting him in Torenthaly besides. Most westerners, he reflected, simply did not appreciate the syrupy sweet desserts typical of the eastern lands.

Guine sat outside his rooms waiting for Augustin’s approach. Augustin allowed him to bring a washing basin and remove his spurs. But when Guine turned away, saying, “Shall I have supper sent in, your Grace?” Augustin suddenly reached up to his squire’s arm and, with a light touch of his mind, seized control.

Guine started to slump where he stood, but Augustin went swiftly to his side, catching him before he fell and easing him onto the chair.

“Listen to my voice, Guine,” he said, as the freckled squire opened his eyes to stare dumbly at the prince. “I was tired after my ride. You helped me dress for bed and then I promptly retired. In fact, I’m there now, sleeping soundly. You were also worn out after your day and fell asleep right here on this chair. You won’t awake until its time in the morning.”

As he released his control, Guine slumped over fully in the stuffed chair, his head leaning back into the corner. Augustin rose, extinguishing the lit candles, and went silently out the door. He did not want to be seen, that was sure. But at this dark hour, it was easy enough to sneak back over the Father Corey’s chapel if, like Augustin, you knew where to walk.

By the time he reached the offices, he found Father Corey sitting and reading by handfire light. Neither of them exchanged a word. Father Corey merely looked back down at his book after giving a slow nod toward Augustin.

Before he entered the chapel, Augustin paused for nothing more than a second. The chapel, he knew, had long been dedicated to Saint Camber. And like other sites sacred to that particular saint, this chapel often gave Augustin shivers down his spine. However, there was no force capable of keeping him from his destination tonight. Certainly not any long dead saint, even be he Deryni sorcerer of old.

Augustin found the ancient pattern on the floor. And, releasing the matrix of power from within it, he vanished.

With a lurch, he found himself standing in a low lit room, the walls illuminated by soft red tinted light. On those walls were decaying frescos, only the reds, blacks and browns of the paints still visible. The scenes depicted were of the first Furstans, like his own ancestors, now relegated more to legend than to historical memory. But other than the frescoed walls, the room looked relatively up to date. Thick Kheldish carpets covered the stone floors and gave the room warmth. Low tables and pillows on the floor gave the room even more comfort.

On a low bench, his legs crossed, his robes caught up between his feet, sat Brother Janos. The monk’s age would have been hard to pinpoint. His hair was shaved, meaning that gray or lack thereof could not give him away. His black eyes seemed deep and wise, even, perhaps, a little worn. But his face did not sport wrinkles.

“You’re early, your highness,” he said as Augustin appeared in the room. “But we shan’t punish punctuality. His majesty is occupied with some matters involving Lady Chrisoula. But he will be done soon and here with my Lord Nikolous.”

“Nikolous will also be here?” Augustin asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“We, each of us as ourselves, have much to discuss with you,” Brother Janos said. “Come away from the portal now and have a seat while we wait.”

Augustin did just that, happy to see that Janos had olives and soft cheese on the table waiting for him.

“Some real food,” he said, with a lighthearted voice, seating himself on the low bench opposite the monk.

“You’ll make a terrible king,” Janos quipped, “if all you reform in Gwynedd is their eating habits.”

“I think I’ve been taught better than that,” Augustin said with a grin.

“But have you been continuing your studies, your highness?” Janos inquired.

“Of course,” Augustin said smoothly, popping an olive into his mouth.

“That is not as Father Corey tells it,” Brother Janos said.

Augustin merely smiled, for at that moment, the heavy door creaked open, admitting two men. Both were dark haired and eyed, but one had streaks of gray running through his short hair while the other was much younger. The elder man wore all black, looking serious and somber. But the younger man was clad in rich Furstan blue, his brown hair ringed with the small circlet that showed his rank.

But as he entered the room, King Konstantine pulled off his crown as well as his thick cape, tossing them casually on the floor.

His companion seemed to give him a disapproving look, but Konstantine was already at Augustin’s side, his hand on his lover’s shoulder, a surge of emotion passing quickly between them before he sat down.

“I’m glad you’re here, Gus,” he said. “Your blasted Father Corey has made me promise that I won’t let you stay though.”

Lord Nikolous moved smoothly to a taller table against one of the walls. “Your majesty, if you will permit me…”

“Oh, sit down, Nikolous,” Konstantine said, almost as a complaint. “I’ve had quite enough formality today, particularly with Lady Chrisoula all evening. And now our old friend has come to visit and I should like it to be like old times.”

“Of course, your majesty,” Nikolous said, though he did not leave his spot by the wall, but merely leaned against one of the frescos.

“So how is Rhemuth in the autumn, Gus?” Konstantine asked, seating himself casually at his friend’s side.

“All the seasons in Rhemuth are boring, your majesty,” Augustin said. “I’m afraid my heart longs for your Torenthi weather. It’s all just dreadful in Gwynedd.”

“Your majesty,” Brother Janos interrupted, “there is business to share with our guest.”

“Oh bother, of course there is,” Konstantine said. “I merely thought it civilized to begin with a little small talk. Isn’t that civilized among good friends?”

As neither Nikolous nor Janos said anything, Augustin said conversationally, “But perhaps all would be served by expediency. You just spoke of shedding formalities for the day, after all, Konnie.” Konstantine gave a grin at the sound of his nickname on Augustin’s lips.

“May I surmise,” Augustin continued, “that this dire news has something to do with the war?”

Konstantine leaned back on his bench. “I’m sending someone through the library portal tomorrow to inform your father. Though I don’t know what good it will do to tell that stubborn old fool. But I’ve word from my spies. The front, I’m afraid, is moving. They’ve abandoned their fight north and turned their attentions south. There is a plan to attack in the dead of winter, when they least expect it. In Gwynedd or Tolan or Meara or somewhere, such an attack would be unthinkable. The weather is too harsh. But when they move on the Forcinn in winter, it will be both unexpected and not too uncomfortable. Of course, now we have this information, so they will not be entirely a surprise. But none of those kingdoms are prepared to defend themselves. They rely on their alliances. Including with Gwynedd.”

“Are they after Bremagne?” Augustin asked, his mind quickly thinking through the possibilities.

“Bremange, Andelon, the Forcinn,” Konstantine said. “Our intelligence shows that they see them as vulnerable. They would like to attack the desert, but the knights are too big a threat. Think about it, Gus. They have a vast amount of territory now, all of it under the caliph. But they lack any access to the sea and they desperately want to fix that.”

“Is your information any more specific?” Augustin asked. “That’s a great deal of territory. They can’t really mean to attack it all at once.”

Konstantine shook his head. “I fear not. We’re… working on it. My agent who sent us that word seems to have disappeared. He may reappear, but other agents have been sent.”

“When you send word to King Luison and Princess Nerasina, they will both want to call on their alliances. Nerasina with both you and the Hort of Orsal…”

“And the Knights of the Anvil,” Janos added.

“King Luison will look to Howicce and Llannedd,” Lord Nikolous added.

“And especially to Gwynedd,” Augustin continued. “The implications of this development…”

“Are staggering,” Lord Nikolous finished for him. “And don’t need to be spelled out for you, I’m sure. Instead, I think you can think through them. I assure you, we have, and we have come to the conclusion that they are inevitable.”

“But war as soon as the winter,” Augustin said.

“Is quite dire,” Nikolous said. “The question is whether Gwynedd will respond to the call.”

“How can we not?” Augustin said.

“But Roydon can be a obstinate man,” Konstantine interrupted. “Don’t underestimate your father’s ability to make a bad decision.”

“The implications of Gwynedd staying out are staggering as well,” Augustin said. “And I can only assume that the caliph is counting on it.”

“Of course,” Nikolous said. “We cannot control King Roydon’s decisions. However, we can, at least, give you some advice.”

Augustin shifted his position where he sat. “You’re welcome to advise me, Lord Nikolous, but I don’t know how much my actions will influence my father. We never speak and rarely even see each other. He’s rather unhappy with me at the moment.”

“I’m not talking about your influence over Roydon,” Nikolous said, moving away from the wall and taking a sort of imperceptible step toward the bench where Augustin and Konstantine sat. “I think we all know that your influence over your father is entirely a negative one. I’m speaking instead of your behavior in Rhemuth. Your highness, if you want to be king, you must act like a monarch.”

“You will be king, Augustin,” Brother Janos added. “We all know it.”

Augustin drummed his fingers aggregately against the bench. “What can I possibly do? I am a prisoner in my own home. I have no freedom. I have no friends…”

“That’s just it, Augustin,” Nikolous said, “you must make allies at court. When it comes time, you must be ready with your own support. And not only for the future, but for now. If there were enough pressure, your father would be forced to take you seriously.”

“It’s not as if Allard will provide much competition in this arena,” Konstantine added. “None of the lords support him. He is not really a knight, so they don’t see him as a real man. And his illness is so well known. They all assume he will die anyway. The only thing stopping them from supporting you is your attitude.”

“What’s wrong with my attitude?”

“Everything,” Nikolous said harshly. “You lounge about like one of your useless, landless cousins. They all know you are the most flawless knight in all the eleven kingdoms, and yet you squander your talents and your leadership by playing at games. You have been called home, but do not let it be an exile. You have the power to make your homeland follow you. They are simply waiting for a leader. Be that leader.”

Augustin did not like what he was hearing. The accusations, from the men who had been his teachers in his youth, stung. What hurt even more was the thought that Konnie was displeased with him. “I am trying to be a leader,” Augustin protested.

“No, you’re not,” Nikolous maintained. “You’re acting like a child. Act like a man.”

Augustin did not reply to this particularly harsh accusation.

“Gather your support,” Janos urged. “And begin pushing for the ideas I know you have about reform and particularly about the war.”

“But if I made the suggestion to my father that he ought to go to Bremagne’s defense, it might drive him not to help them,” Augustin said.

“Then let it,” Nikolous said. “Roydon, we all know, will do what he wants. If that’s what he wants, then so be it. And if he wants to use you as his excuse for inaction, so the better. As long as you espouse the right position, the moral position, then support will come to you. The lords will rally behind it. And the clergy will as well. Let them be your allies. They will see this as a holy war.”

“The clergy is corrupt and unholy,” Augustin complained.

“When you become king,” Nikolous said, “that will be the time to do something about it. But not now. Take support where you can get it.”

Augustin steeled his face into a thoughtful half smile to hide his fury and abashment at being spoken to as such. “Thank you, my lords,” he said. “I will take your advice under consideration.”

An uneasy pause passed through the room and Augustin felt the three men exchange a glance.

“Is there something more?” he asked, trying to sound neutral.

“I’m afraid so,” Brother Janos said. “We have spoken and we think you should marry.”

“You sound like my father,” Augustin complained.

Konstantine, who had been silent through most the conversation, now spoke. “There are things that may be overlooked here that may not in Gwynedd. I will marry if I need to make an alliance. But there are other heirs, not of my body, who will be plenty acceptable to my people. My father was not a king, though his father was. The Furstan succession, as far as we are concerned, has already been guaranteed. But to the Haldanes, you know it is different.”

“Rumors about your father’s decision to call you home abound already,” Nikolous said. “Silence them now.”

“I suppose you have the girl all picked out?” Augustin asked, unable to keep the edge of bitterness out of his voice.

“His majesty’s cousin, Princess Nina, is seventeen and of good stock. She is patient and understanding, well-educated and intelligent. She ought to be able to produce heirs for your highness as well as make a strong and able queen one day,” Nikolous said. “You might easily say that an affection between the two of you grew while you were here. Now that you have been away, you have realized how much that affection meant to you.”

Augustin was no longer able to hide his disdain for these proposals and accusations. His face now seethed with anger.

Looking at him, Konstantine saw clearly what was wrought in Augustin’s expression. “Leave us,” he said simply.

“Your majesty?” Lord Nikolous asked.

“You heard me, Nikolous,” Konstantine said. “Leave us.”

“Your majesty knows…” Brother Janos began, as he stood to make his leave.

“I shall make sure that Father Corey has no reason to be angry with you, Brother,” Konstantine said. “Now, I have given you leave. Go.”

The two men closed the door quietly behind them, walking hurriedly, if warily, away from the frescoed room.

For a moment, there was silence before Augustin broke down and spoke, revealing much of what was running through his head.

“I would have hoped you would have called me to you before now. And under more pleasant circumstances. One might almost feel you had arranged my exile.”

Konstantine inched toward the Haldane prince on the bench they shared. Placing his hand on Augustin’s shoulder, as he had when he entered the room, he said, “Don’t be angry with me, Gus. Just as there are limits on you, so there are on me as well. Such is always the way for kings.”

Augustin shrugged Konstantine’s hand away. “Yes, limits,” he murmured.

Konstantine moved forward and closer again. “I cannot help what I cannot help. But you are here now.” His voice carried a hint of suggestion. For a moment, Augustin allowed himself to lean back into the Torenthi king’s embrace. The promise of much sharing alit between them. His shields relaxed somewhat and a tentative contact was made.

But as Konstantine tried to pull the bond deeper, Augustin suddenly shut him off and pulled away, standing up from the bench.

“You’ve given me much to think about, your majesty,” he said curtly. “And I will consider it all weightily and send you word of any plans I make.”

“Gus,” Konstantine said, infuriated.

“As you yourself mentioned, Father Corey will expect me back any moment. Don’t let’s disappoint him. May I have your majesty’s leave to go?”

“Damn you, Augustin,” Konstantine muttered. “Fine, sulk away and think it all over. But we are your first allies. Don’t forget that.”

“As if you would ever let me forget,” Augustin shot back as he walked toward the transfer portal.

For a moment, he feared his volatile emotional state would hamper his efforts to return home as quickly as possible. He took a deep breath and, invoking relaxation techniques Brother Janos had long ago taught him, stepped onto the portal. Either his effort to clear his mind had worked very well, or his anger had merely given him focus. As soon as he stepped onto the portal, he unleashed the matrix within and, with rather more of a heaving sensation than he was accustomed, he found himself back in the Saint Camber chapel next to Corey’s offices.

“You’re back rather sooner than I expected,” Father Corey commented from where he sat, his attention still buried in his books. Turning away from his studies, he added, “I hope nothing is amiss?”

“You’ll hear soon enough,” Augustin said. “Konstantine’s spies say the Moors intend to attack Bremagne and Andelon in the late winter. There is little specific information, but the implications are obviously staggering.”

Father Corey drew in a breath. “Has Lord Nikolous contacted Gwen?”

“I didn’t inquire,” Augustin admitted, his feelings toward Nikolous still fuming. “I assume the Council can take care of its own business.”

“Did Lord Nikolous bear some other news that distressed you, your highness?” Father Corey asked, raising an eyebrow.

“He did,” Augustin said. “But that’s none of your concern. I’m going back to my bed.”

 

Chapter Four

The next few days were chilly and damp, even for an autumn in often dreary Rhemuth. Augustin begged a slight cold coming on. With Rhemuth’s two permanent healers otherwise engaged, Gwen in Llannedd and Father Corey with his ever busy schedule, such a claim was hard to substantiate, but his squire Guine seemed happy enough to play along, whether he truly believed his master under the weather or not.

But even from his rooms, he could not fail to notice the back and forth movements and growing rumblings in the king’s council. Increasingly, the council seemed divided. Very quickly, in a matter of less than two weeks, King Luison’s eldest son and heir, Prince Guy, arrived by ship, ready to plead their alliances. But as Augustin had predicted, his father was wavering, unsure of his desire to support what was such an overwhelming war when it did not directly effect his own lands. That he might be seen as a coward, even by his own people, did not seem to even occur to Roydon. And for this, Augustin cursed his father.

But when Sunday dawned again, Augustin had at last resolved to do at least some of what Konstantine and Lord Nikolous had advised. And while he loathed to do it, he decided his first meeting needed to be with Archbishop Burne.

Paul Burne had been archbishop for almost eight years. Before that, he had been an itinerant bishop for ten. And while he was almost seventy, he seemed to have at least another decade of domination over the Gwynedd clergy. He seemed as spry at seventy as he had at sixty. And while his hair had long been white, his face had a sort of ageless quality about it.

All of this was much of the disappointment of many. For Burne was a mediocre primate at best. At worst, many believed he had a hand in the corruption that seemed to now plague the clergy. There was little proof, for whenever a scandal occurred in such a way that it could no longer be avoided, Burne seemed to come in and resolve the problem, as if he himself were blameless. Yet other, lesser scandals, were allowed to continue unabated. Was the primate merely oblivious, turning a blind eye, or, worst of all, pulling all the strings?

Still, for Augustin’s purposes, going to Burne was the only option.

Burne said the early mass on Sundays, where Allard and Roydon were almost always in attendance. No one would expect Augustin’s presence there. It might even be considered unwelcome. But he would attend nonetheless. As the familiar ceremony passed, Augustin steeled himself for what he wanted to do. He ignored the glances that Allard shot him in questioning surprise at his presence. And he pretended not to notice that his own father had not looked at him once.

After the mass, as he had counted upon, Archbishop Burne gave him a questioning look. But Augustin merely bowed his head as if embarrassed by his own long absence from the church. Everything about his stance was designed to project humility. After the service, he went to the small chapel near Burne’s offices and knelt there for quite awhile, hoping for the archbishop to join him.

Others also came in and out of the chapel. It was a common place for quiet prayer for those in the archbishop’s service. If only someone would bring the archbishop and if only the archbishop was curious enough about Augustin’s agonized prayer in his chapel to want to come to him.

After almost an hour of waiting, as the second mass was well in progress, being said by Bishop FitzHugh, the archbishop finally came, his presence clearing the chapel of all but the kneeling prince, his two secretaries closing the large wooden doors behind him.

“Is there something I can do for you, my son?” Burne asked quietly, seating himself on a pew next to where Augustin had knelt.

Augustin turned a face reddened and tear filled toward the archbishop, who drew back in some surprise. “Perhaps you could hear my confession, Father,” he suggested. “Though I doubt God can ever forgive me my sins.”

While pausing a minute to gauge the sincerity of this last remark, Burne pondered how to respond. “I believe that God can forgive if you truly approach with repentance in your heart. Are you really repentant, my son?”

The question revealed openly the archbishop’s skepticism, which was no surprise to Augustin. The question was whether or not he could adequately convince him.

“I am,” he replied simply. “I do not know what good it may do me, but I am repentant.”

Archbishop Burne nodded solemnly. “Then I will happily hear your confession, your highness.”

The confession itself was difficult for Augustin. He did not have to feign any of his distress, for everything he told to Burne was absolutely true: his long affair with Konstantine, his envy of his brother’s position, his anger with his father, his forsaking the church for so long. Other smaller transgressions, particularly of Deryni origin, which perhaps laid just as heavy on Augustin’s heart, were left out. They would not serve him and would only make Burne suspicious of his powers. He wanted Burne to think him weakened and human, flawed but on the path to redemption.

 

His long relationship with Konstantine, while it could not have been entirely unknown to the archbishop, still seemed to shock him. But rather than shy away from this topic, Burne embraced it, pushing for detail. “How did you get caught in such a sinful web?” he demanded.

To this, Augustin was not sure how to reply. His mind flashed to his early meetings with the blue eyed Furstan king. He had, of course, encountered him as a child before. But when Konstantine ascended the throne at age seventeen, King Roydon had sent his younger son to squire at his court, in part to get rid of a rather arrogant fifteen year old problem. Already, the two of them had found themselves at odds over petty details. Each of them was too stubborn and too alike. And with the death of Roydon’s queen and Augustin’s mother when he was a mere thirteen years old, there was no one to mediate their bickering.

In Beldour, Augustin sulked for the better part of a year before he finally garnered the attentions of Konstantine. The king had long been aware of his foreign squire’s misbehavior at court and the seeming inability of anyone to discipline him. But he was young too and found it easy to overlook until Augustin managed to insult the Hort of Orsal during some delicate negotiations. At that point, the monarch had taken him aside privately to remind him of his duties and obligations.

How angry Konnie must have been with him! And how angry he was at everyone! But something about Konstantine’s controlled fury had actually gotten through to him. And once it had, the two had begun spending much more time together. Konstantine took him as his personal squire. Being king, he had few friends his own age around him. And the two quickly found how compatible they were in most every way. A shiver of both desire and betrayal ran up his spine as he remembered a cold winter night when they had first shared a bed.

But this was not what he needed to say to the archbishop. Instead, he told of Konstantine’s charisma and charm, of his power and the strange customs of alien Torenth. He led the archbishop to believe he had been seduced, when this was certainly not the case.

“You must break off this unholy liaison at once,” the archbishop advised. “You must not see him again, not even at court.”

“I have already broken it off,” Augustin said, though this was not entirely the truth, he could not feel that it was a lie either. His heart, he found, had turned bitter toward his former lover. “Though I do not know if I can avoid him for all time, I would wish to as much as possible.”

“You must,” the archbishop said. “And you must do penance for this sin.”

But before the archbishop could suggest some quiet retreat where Augustin might engage in self-flagellation among monks, the prince steered the conversation in another direction.

“My father has suggested I marry,” Augustin said, entirely truthfully. “And I now find I am minded to consider his advice.”

“Your father has suggested you marry Linette of Meara,” Burne said. “But I do not think…”

“She would not be an appropriate bride,” Augustin admitted, cutting the archbishop off again smoothly. “I had in mind another. I remember Eliza Holden quite fondly from my childhood. She is as yet unattached and would make an excellent royal bride. I thought that perhaps such a childhood fondness might be allowed to bloom into… dare I hope it?… love.”

Burne now nodded appraisingly, his suspicions aroused yet again. “My grand-niece’s future husband does not stand to inherit titles so grand as Mearan viceroy,” he pointed out. “She has a mere earldom.”

“I am not interested in her lands as much as her simple patience and beauty,” Augustin said. “I only hope that she would be strong enough and pious enough to be my wife and perhaps to help me on my path of redemption.”

This plea, Augustin could see, had stirred Burne. While his niece had many prospects for marriage, the possibility of becoming a queen, unspoken on either of their lips, was certainly far and above what anyone else could offer.

“I merely ask your permission to court her,” Augustin said. “She is one of my sister’s ladies in waiting at the moment.”

Burne nodded slowly. “I can give that permission. And if she herself gives you her hand freely, then I will consent as well.”

Augustin gave his first smile since the confession had begun. He hoped it was small and humble enough. “Thank you, your grace.”

“But on this condition,” Burne added, causing Augustin’s internal elation to skip a beat. “You must publicly declare and repent your sins before you can be forgiven. It is as if you have been excommunicated, my son. There must be ceremony to show your new commitment to God and His church.”

Augustin nodded. “Simply name the time and place.”

Burne paused, thinking. “You should spend the next few days in contemplation and penance. I would expect you to fast and pray. You must remain secluded as well. But three days should be sufficient. I see no reason to delay overmuch.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll send for you on the morrow to discuss plans further.”

Augustin nodded and silently returned to his prayer as the archbishop left through the heavy doors.

Part of him worried genuinely for the fate of his soul. Was he repentant at all? What scripture said about his sins was hardly deniable. At the moment, he was angry with Konstantine, but did he really regret having been his lover? He would not allow himself to ponder this question overmuch, if only because he did not like the answers.

To his other sins, the answers were even more unclear and perhaps harder not to contemplate. It was easy to tell himself that he did not covet the power of the throne. After all, the circumstances were clear. Allard was ill and weak. He might never be able to rule. And his father actually was unreasonable in refusing to acknowledge this truth. The problems he saw facing Gwynedd did exist and needed attention. He truly believed that.

However, what he had said to Burne about his envy, his desire for power, his sin, was not untrue. And in his arguments, he really did not give his father the proper respect.

These thoughts shook his resolve and made him feel sick at heart. Leaving the chapel, he made his way back to his rooms, which he expected to be empty. Guine usually went to mass with Allard’s squires and Allard himself, though Augustin had not seen him that morning. With a passing thought, he recalled that his squire was perhaps visiting his aunt and uncle.

He called servants to bring him tea. But when they arrived carrying the trays, they brought Gwen with them as well.

His first impulse was to send her away. But there was, perhaps, reason that Gwen had chosen her life of piety and would never marry. She would have made a terrible obedient wife. Her father had raised her too much to be a scholar. And as a healer, she carried herself proudly, consistently expecting to get her way.

And part of him wanted her to stay. Any confession, informally speaking, he might offer to her, would have more meaning than any he had offered Burne. And the confession he had given Burne had stirred up much feeling in him.

“Father Eduard said you were sick,” she said.

“A façade to conceal the fact that I wanted to avoid everyone.”

“He also said you’d been to Torenthaly.”

Rather than respond, Augustin stood and pulled out the other chair, waving his hand to dismiss the servant who had brought the tea. “Would you like to have a seat, Sister? I would love to hear about your trip to Llannedd. How is Queen Isolde?”

“She died,” Gwen said simply, sitting down at the offered chair. “But that’s hardly unexpected. She lived a long life. Duke Wynn is going to take the regency for young Marlon until he reaches in majority in less than two years.”

“As you said, not unexpected. I remember Marlon from his days here at court last year. I think he has a great deal of promise as a leader.”

“What happened in Torenth?”

“Do you mean to say that Lord Nikolous’s advice didn’t come straight from your Camberian Council?”

Gwen gracefully poured herself a cup full of tea and mixed it with the honey on the platter. Tea, at least, was something of Torenth she could appreciate. “You saw Nikolous?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “He had some advice for me about how better to become king of Gwynedd.”

Gwen shuddered. “I do not like your talk of treason,” she said. “Did his advice include using the confessional to political ends?”

“You heard about this morning?” Augustin asked, slumping forward in his chair.

“Only that you met with Archbishop Burne. And in three days you will offer a public act of contrition after mass. Don’t get me wrong, Augustin. I would love to see you atone. But not falsely.”

Augustin could only slump further into his chair. “Do you think I haven’t considered how corrupt and immoral I am for this? But am I not already damned for what I have done? For who I am?”

“Do not make it worse by your actions now. I would agree that you must prepare for the throne. But you cannot seek it.”

“It is far too late for that,” Augustin said. “If you have nothing to offer me but an attempt to be my conscience, then you can take your leave.”

“It is you who forces me to act as your conscience,” Gwen argued. “Nay, you beg me to. You won’t confide in Eduard Corey. You won’t go near any other man ordained. You confide in me because you know I will accept you and forgive you, because of the long love I have borne for you. You know I am the only person who will challenge you and offer you a moral path while forgiving your transgressions. But I will not stand for this.”

Augustin sat back up. “Don’t leave me now, Gwen.”

Without having finished her tea, Gwen McLain stood up. “I’m sorry, Augustin. I came to make sure you were feeling well. But as you seem to be quite in control, I have other patients to attend, ones I can help.”

“You can help me, Gwen,” Augustin insisted, but Gwen McLain merely shook her head and trailed out.

 

Chapter Five

Roydon took his supper privately whenever court wasn’t in progress. It simply seemed easier and simpler. He might spend the whole day with advisors and councilors, lords and dukes and barons, all of them with demands and thoughts to share. The older he became, the more tired it seemed to make him and the more he valued a quiet supper at the end of the day.

Since Adellene’s death more than a decade ago, Roydon felt he deserved his solitude as well. And he knew evidence suggested he had not been a poor king. There had been peace in the eleven kingdoms since he took the throne. Nothing more than a minor skirmish had taken place in the last thirty years.

He dreaded the idea that such a peace could not hold. Allard seemed blind to the fact that mayhem threatened to burst loose on every front. The corruption of the bishops, the discontent in the Kheldish Riding, the war in Torenth, and the lack of support for Allard as king all seemed to portend future war. And though Roydon could not ignore these things, nor could he see what to do about them.

It was his son-in-law Glen Braden who brought him the news of Augustin’s seeming transformation at supper. Only two of his children and Megan’s husband attended his supper. Glen was one of his closest advisors. The Carcashale earl had become a loyal advisor since his marriage to Princess Megan. Roydon found he relied on him greatly.

But this news did little other than anger him. “What does he think he’s playing at?” the king roared, causing the page serving them to jump back and nearly spill the tray he carried. Megan casually relieved the boy of his foods and dismissed him with a whisper. She knew what to do when her father entered one of his moods. It would be best if no one else was present.

“All I know is what I’ve told you,” Glen Braden said. “Archbishop Burne will be presenting Prince Augustin making an act of contrition after mass tomorrow morning. It is to be a public ceremony.”

“He is up to something,” Roydon swore. “Damn him. He is not sorry for anything he’s done. God damn him!”

“Father,” Megan said quietly, “is it so much to believe that Augustin wants to redeem himself? Both in the eyes of God and in your eyes?”

Allard answered for his father with a snort. “Yes, I would say it is, dear sister. Augustin does not have a repentant bone in him.”

“I’m sorry, Megan,” said Glen Braden, “but I have to agree with your brother. Prince Augustin has long shown himself as an enemy of his own family. He works against your interests, Prince Allard, and defies his majesty’s wishes.”

Roydon resisted the urge to throw the dishes. Whenever his temper got the better of him, he missed his wife. She had always been able to calm him.

“Augustin would never do anything to harm you, father,” Megan argued quietly. “Don’t think so ill of him.”

As Roydon fumed and yet again, Allard gave voice to his father’s thoughts. “But he’s ambitious. Damn him! Is this some ploy to gain the support of the clergy? Well, he’ll never have it. The rumors about his relationship with King…” Suddenly, he broke off, realizing that he had almost said too much in front of his father. There was no way those rumors had not reached King Roydon. But there was an unspoken understanding that they would not speak of them aloud in his presence. The king’s anger visibly increased at Allard’s near mention of King Konstantine.

Megan gave her older brother a glance, at which Allard immediately backed down, moving back in his chair. Glen Braden also became hushed as his wife shot him a similar look.

Laying a hand on hard father’s arm, Megan said in her quiet voice, “Father, please relax. Augustin is not doing anything to hurt you. If you like, I will go speak to him. But we must assume this is a genuine act of contrition. Even Augustin would never violate the church in this way. We should be there tomorrow morning.”

Indeed, Roydon was minded to listen when his daughter did offer advice. Such was rare enough that her voice carried a great deal of sway. So the following morning, they attended mass again and watched Augustin seated in the front. Allard begged off, saying he was feeling ill.

Afterwards, to a small but substantial group of courtiers, Augustin, aided by the archbishop, put on quite a show. He entered the cathedral and knelt before the assembly and the archbishop, who proceeded to begin an adapted form of a liturgy to remove excommunication. The words demanded that Augustin reply often, publicly confessing the fact that he had long sinned. To any watching, it was hard to deny the fact that Prince Augustin seemed genuinely affected by the ceremony. As it progressed, his discomfort seemed to increase. Some force clearly affected him as he responded to the queries in the liturgy.

As the ceremony culminated, Archbishop Burne repeating, “Ego te absolvo…” those Deryni in the audience seemed to see the source of Augustin’s affliction. Where Augustin’s eyes fixated, behind the very human archbishop, there stood a figure shrouded in glowing white light with silver hair, clad in gray. The king identified him immediately with a gasp.

“Saint Camber, deliver us from evil,” he whispered, clearly heard only by his daughter.

As the ceremony came to a close, the figure moved briefly toward the kneeling Augustin, who could not help but flinch at his approach. And in a flash of light, he vanished from view.

The archbishop, in his episcopal purple, smiled obliviously at the tear-stained face of the contrite Haldane prince. He had seen none of what had passed. But he graciously helped Augustin to his feet and escorted him out of the chapel as the assembly streamed out, those Deryni among them whispering energetically about the significance of what they had just seen.

The same thing occurred to King Roydon, who did not know what to make of the shared vision. He had seen Saint Camber himself only once, those blue eyes that bore deep inside his soul, when he had gone through the Haldane power ceremony just before ascending the throne. Those days, the vision included, after his father’s death, were much a blur in his mind. But he could not forget feeling the blessing of Camber’s presence.

His youngest son had not looked as if he was feeling Camber’s blessing. He had appeared more like Camber’s presence was painful to him. But what did this mean? Was Camber’s apparition a sign of approval or condemnation for Augustin?

His human son-in-law had not seen what now made several in the room abuzz with curiosity. Glen Braden asked his wife what now caused such a stir. Princess Megan began to tell him, but she was interrupted by her father.

“It wasn’t Saint Camber,” her father insisted sharply.

Megan raised an eyebrow, but said nothing to this assertion.

“It was not Saint Camber,” Roydon insisted a second time as they all trailed across the courtyard.  
* * *

A few hours later, in chambers secret and deep, another group debated the validity of the Haldane prince’s ghostly vision.

Mariette de Chapellone took the most rigorous view that Augustin, in his treachery, had somehow manufactured the image for all to see.

“I would have known if it were some projection of Augustin’s,” Gwen McLain insisted. “Not only would I have recognized any false image, but I have worked with Augustin before and I think I might recognize his magic. This was not Augustin. If anything, he appeared distraught over Camber’s presence.”

“What do you suppose Camber of Culdi would have thought of Prince Augustin?” Fenton Gregory scoffed. “The great saint and the…”

Gwen was not exactly sure what Fenton would have said, but she was relieved when James cut him off.

“We must simply know what Augustin’s motives are in doing this,” the elderly council member said.

“As I see it, there are two possibilities,” Oran d’Horme said, casually strumming his fingers on the table in thought. Even at age forty, the blond physician seemed unable to be still for longer than a few minutes. Mariette often rudely described him as a perpetual child. Gwen had heard James Killey describe him like a squirrel, unable to stop its tasks to rest, for when did you ever see a squirrel rest? “First of all,” Oran continued, “he might be genuinely contrite. He may have experienced a change in heart. Alternately, he may have an entirely ulterior motive. What that might be though, I can only speculate.”

“We all could,” Noel pointed out. “Most obviously, it would be an attempt to gain the support of the bishops and the clergy. Or more generally, to allay the suspicions of the courtiers whose support he might want.”

“Or to try and make amends with his own father,” Oran speculated.

“There are too many possibilities,” Lanthan complained. “But what has precipitated this action? That is what we need to know.”

Several eyes in the room glanced toward Gwen, who shook her head. “I was away. When I returned, Augustin had already set this process in motion. I tried to discuss it with him, but,” she paused imperceptibly, “we quarreled. He refused to talk with me.”

“He did not even confide in you?” Fenton asked, giving her a look of genuine surprise.

“He did, however, mention that he had been to see King Konstantine,” Gwen said. “And that you, Lord Nikolous, were there to advise him.”

The eyes of the council shifted quite quickly toward Nikolous Orenski, who merely gave one of his cryptic smiles. “At the behest of his majesty, I did see Prince Augustin,” he admitted.

“And what happened?” Lanthan Pryce asked.

“King Konstantine asked that I help him advise his old friend on how better to behave at the court in Rhemuth,” Nikolous said. “I did just that. Suffice it to say that I cannot give you the details. Konstantine has sworn me to silence. But there was no ill motive, I assure you. Konstantine was merely concerned about Augustin’s idleness and boredom. As a close friend of the prince’s, he wanted only for Augustin to better assert himself to serve both Gwynedd and her alliances with Torenth.”

“And that included this unexpected public confession and seeming alliance with Archbishop Burne?” Fenton asked.

Nikolous shook his head. “No, no, you misunderstand. The prince’s action was as much a surprise to myself and will be to my lord Konstantine as to any of you. This is not at all what we had counseled. Like the rest of you, I can only speculate as to Augustin’s motives.” Had this been any other context, there might have been a question about Nikolous’s words, but there could be no lying within that chamber.

As much as any discussion amongst the members of the Camberian Council, this one made clear feelings toward Augustin Haldane and his possible ambitions. They could no longer pretend he was a cipher. The thought that he was now moving, in some way at least, could hardly be ignored. Gwen’s support for him was assumed, though she said little to confirm it. James Killey and Oran d’Horme’s support was more clearly voiced. The Torenthi lord, Nikolous Orenski, had always been a supporter of Augustin’s, but his support now seemed in question, which led to an unvoiced doubt about the prince’s relationship with King Konstantine as well. Lanthan Pryce, as a scholar, was questioning of all sides as always. Mariette de Chapellone, supported by Noel, spoke against the potential evils and problems Augustin and his ambitions might bring.

Another conversation among this body also arose, one with perhaps more import than the validity of Augustin’s vision or his intentions. That was King Roydon’s seeming vacillation on the issue of Bremagne’s defense. Everyone worried about the grave implications of his inaction. But as there seemed to be little they could do, they postponed the discussion for later. Perhaps Roydon would even make a decision before they next convened.

After the meeting adjourned, Gwen caught Lord Nikolous’s eye. As he moved to speak to her as the others trailed off toward the portal in the alcove, she could not help but feel intimidated. Nikolous Orenski never failed to carry himself with anything but perfect confidence. Coupled with his perpetual dark attire and tall frame, he could not help but seem imposing most of the time. As one of the tallest individuals in the eleven kingdoms, he was also one of the only people to intimidate Sister Gwen McLain.

But she would not let that show outwardly to him. “Don’t give me excuses, Nikolous,” she said quietly to avoid attention. “What did you advise Augustin to do that so affected him?”

Nikolous gave her one of his looks that seemed designed to bore into her soul. “Konstantine advised him to make allies at court.”

“To make allies? That is not all.”

“No, it is not. Konstantine also offered his cousin, the Princess Nina’s, hand in marriage.”

Gwen raised one eyebrow in surprise. “Konstantine did this?”

“Yes. At Brother Janos’s urging, he agreed that Augustin should marry.”

“Can I assume then,” Gwen said, “that Augustin and King Konstantine argued over this?”

“That I cannot say,” Nikolous said. “His majesty bade me leave the two of them alone. Whether they fought or engaged otherwise I have no evidence.”

“But simply having no evidence is hardly a bar on having common sense,” Gwen hissed.

“Sister, you do me wrong,” Nikolous insisted.

“Do you not think the dissolution of this long relationship might have a bearing on the business of the council?” Gwen asked sharply. “And on our understanding of Augustin’s state of mind?”

“And what will we do with this information?” Nikolous asked. “Debate it endlessly, I presume. Nay, Sister, do not reproach me. Let us wait until something might be done.”

Gwen felt her face flush as she turned on heels toward the now emptied alcove. Grasping the power in the matrix, the connected the energies of that portal to the one in Father Corey’s chapel. Hardly a moment later, she felt herself stagger into the empty silence of the chapel in Rhemuth.

 

Chapter Six

Over the next weeks, Roydon grew more and more weary of the debate in his own council over the defense of Bremagne. As the positions around him became more and more heated and impassioned, his own inability to make a decision became more and more entrenched.

He could see before him both paths and down each road only lay perils. To not come to King Luison’s aide would be to deny Gwynedd’s massive power and possibly to risk his own lands in the long term. But to come to Bremagne’s aide would mean death and destruction for his own army and would leave him open to domestic problems. As his advisors grew increasingly frustrated, convinced that their king could not see the validity of their positions, King Roydon became stuck, plagued by his own ability to see all the potentialities too well.

Meanwhile, Augustin was busy with his own arrangements. Unable to influence the debate about the new southern war, he willingly stayed out of it and concerned himself with things he could control. Foremost, he was getting married.

After his performance with the archbishop, it seemed nothing could shock the courtiers, who were unsure which topic to debate more: the coming war or the younger prince’s surprising nuptials. Eliza herself was not technically required to agree to the marriage, as her uncle the archbishop had given the prince her hand, but Augustin spent a great deal of time courting his sister’s lady in waiting, bringing her flowers and sweets and generally acting dashing in her presence to impress her. Eliza was a sweet girl, her head covered in blond curls and her disposition loyal and courteous. She was not empty headed like many of the women at court. While she could be swayed by the rituals of chivalry and appreciated the silks and fripperies of court, she was at her heart, a practical sort of woman, who could easily put these things aside if need called for it.

Augustin had chosen her, in large part, for these qualities. But as he courted her, he often still felt guilty for using her in this way. But was he not also merely a pawn here? And was this not always the case for women? Unless they entered the religious life, like Gwen had, to escape that fate, they were inevitably the providence of men.

One afternoon, finding her in the garden with his sister and niece and nephew, he managed to get her alone for a moment, offering her a rose, one of the last of the season. And as he watched her rosy smile, he could not help but broach his own guilt.

“Fie, your highness,” she said to his abrupt confession. “Do not think I am unaware of your position. I am well aware of it, as well as your past and the alliances and fears allayed you hope for in marriage to me. And all these things I can accept, if you can treat me with respect, as you have these past days.”

Augustin spontaneously took her hand and kissed it. “I do not know,” he murmured, “if I can ever love you as you might wish…”

But to this Eliza had an answer as well. “I will devote myself to you, and you alone,” she said, her voice soft but filled with confidence, “if you will only build a partnership with me. I do not ask anything you cannot give.”

The answer pleased Augustin, assuaging what doubts he had about his choice in Eliza Holden. His sister’s enthusiastic approval of the match also amused him. So as he escorted her quietly back to the garden benches where his nephew galloped a wooden horse and knight across the grass, he could only smile at Megan’s grin toward him.

Another young lady in waiting sat with her, clad all in green, a young boy he assumed to be her son playing at her feet, watching Prince Richard and his wooden toys with some envy.

She rose as Augustin approached, giving the prince a quick curtsey. “Your highness,” she murmured.

“Augustin,” Megan said, taking her brother’s hand, “allow me to present the Countess Galina of Marley.”

The title clicked immediately for Augustin, who knew her to be Thayer Coris’s wife, raised at Konstantine’s uncle’s court at Beldour. The boy at her feet must have been their son, Brent. But what happened next made him realize to what extent things were moving forward for him, without his having to lift a finger directly.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Augustin intoned.

“And I yours, your highness. My husband, Thayer Coris, has bade me ask you to sup with us tonight if you are not otherwise engaged. It is our understanding that you do not often dine with the court.”

Augustin exchanged a look with his sister, sending a thought fleeting into her mind. Is this your doing, dear sis?

But though his sister did not respond, Augustin could only assume this implied at least an openness to considering his ambitions, at least a sympathy with his plight and his argument with their father. Countess Galina’s offer of supper seemed an invitation to alliance with her husband, quite clearly.

Augustin accepted graciously, bowing as he made his leave. He was plenty pleased with this development and now allowed himself to take the rest of the afternoon for a ride outside the city.

When he returned, Guine helped him to remove his spurs and dress for supper. He made his way to the apartments of the Earl Marley with some trepidation. He knew Thayer Coris from when he was a youngster at court. At the time, the Earl of Marley had been a dashing young squire, the most promising at court. Duke Ewan, who trained all the pages and squires to go through the court at Rhemuth, had made it clear that he saw great things in store for Thayer Coris. The sandy haired young man had been a leader to his age mates and the younger boys as well. Augustin remembered being a bit in awe of him as a young page. Unfortunately, Thayer Coris had been called away from court before his knighting due to his father’s illness. Recently, he had come back to court, taking up his father’s seat on the royal council.

Now, Augustin found himself anxious about the possibility of meeting with the earl. His nerves did not seem to want to calm at all. Part of it was the unknown. He wasn’t sure what to expect of Countess Galina’s invitation. The potentials seemed clear, but at the same time, they weren’t clear at all. Now, Augustin found he couldn’t stop his heart from racing.

Supper had been laid out in the apartments. Thayer’s son and heir, Brent, was already put to bed. It was clearly meant to be an intimate affair. Other than one servant, there was no one else present. Not that Augustin had expected anyone else, but he had not known entirely what to anticipate.

As Augustin sat, Thayer’s countess, Galina, still dressed all in that silky rich green, laid a hand over his and made efforts to put him at ease.

“Whatever else might happen tonight,” she said, dismissing the servant who had just piled their plates with food, “we bear you no ill will. Don’t be so much on your guard. Relax and enjoy the meal. I’ve heard that your highness, like myself, appreciates some of the delicacies of Torenthi cuisine. While one cannot expect too much from the chefs here, I have endeavored to order a meal your highness might appreciate.”

She was gracious and smooth and while Augustin recognized her actions and words as designed to put him at ease, he let her work her charms as they chatted about her home in the Rhejellan Mountains, where Augustin had journeyed several times. By the time they ate their dessert, the two of them had discussed many of the places, foods and music they knew in common. Galina was effortlessly relaxed and Augustin had found the black eyed countess’s attitude disarming.

Thayer Coris, on the other hand, seemed never to relax throughout the supper. Augustin, in his own anxiety, had not initially noticed his host’s nerves. But as his wife chatted on about everything and nothing, Augustin became increasingly aware that Thayer Coris said very little and mostly pushed his food around the plate rather than ate it. He was just as uneasy as his guest.

Galina laid their plates aside and suggested they adjourn to the sitting room, guiding Augustin to a chair in the adjacent little room under the archway. Augustin had not really realized how pleasant their quarters were. The sitting room, as Galina had referred to it, had windows all around, facing out to the courtyard. On a cool night like that, a chill permeated the space, but was set off a good deal by the roaring fire in the dining room. The two spaces were close enough together and small enough that the warmth entered the sitting room as well.

Taking his seat, Augustin looked intently at the Earl of Marley, who remained standing, his nerves never having calmed down. Now, as the tall, sandy haired man leaned against the wall, Augustin decided there was no more time for evasion through small talk.

“Perhaps we should discuss more serious topics than the Torenthi landscape, my lord,” Augustin said, looking into Thayer Coris’s green eyes.

Those eyes clouded for a moment before the Earl spoke. “Your highness, I wanted to speak with you on matters quite serious to the future of this kingdom.”

“I suspected as much,” Augustin said, perhaps sounding a little too flippant for Thayer’s taste.

“Do you mock my purpose?” he asked shortly.

Augustin drew back and, glancing at Galina, who had shot her husband a questioning look, shook his head. “I am sorry, my lord. That was not my intention. Forgive me. I take whatever you have to say quite seriously.”

Galina nodded, as much to Augustin as to Thayer, who replied, “May I speak frankly, your highness?”

“Always,” Augustin said simply.

“While others may talk about your military prowess and skills at the tournaments, I have not been much impressed by your reputation to date.”

Augustin could only nod, wondering what might come next.

“I would add as well that I am a pious man and do not much like your use of the church’s corruption to your own ends. I think you know of which I speak. You have, in fact, made many choices in your life of which I must say I do not approve.”

Augustin now smiled slightly to cover his anger, which he was quietly bringing under control. “I trust there is more to this though?” he asked.

“Over the last few weeks, you have tried hard to put on a new face here at court. You talk of marriage, of repentance. My ears are not deaf. I would like to know what else you talk of, if given the chance.”

“The Moors in the south will not stop at the Forcinn or Bremagne,” Augustin said. “And without our help, they will not be able to defend themselves. Not even the Knights of the Anvil have the strength to defend against them. This is a holy war and Gwynedd cannot stay out of it.”

“You think not?” Thayer Coris asked, his voice flat.

“Lord Marley, I know we cannot. My father and brother must be made to see that. We must commit ourselves in the spring. Nay, we must commit ourselves now so that we may arrive in the south come spring. And I must go to command those knights.”

“Must you?” Thayer asked, his voice still very even, not betraying any of his feeling on the matter. His shields were so tight that Augustin could not read anything of him.

But Augustin felt clearly the earl could be persuaded. To do so, he would have to be confident and compelling.

“There is no one else as qualified as me. I know the opponent. I have fought these men in Torenth many times. And while my skills may not impress you, Lord Marley, I assure you they are not insignificant. My brother, for reasons we all are aware, cannot lead this kind of force. He does not have the battle skill. My father is too old. Gwynedd needs me.”

“But if you led this army, these troops destined for the south,” Thayer Coris said, “then would that not give you much power here. Some would certainly say too much power.”

Here, for a moment, Augustin paused. If Thayer Coris had wanted to trick him into revealing his ambitions in order to report them back to his father or even Allard, then he had obviously succeeded. And if the earl merely wanted to inquire, perhaps to support, Augustin’s very loyal ambitions, then such a question implied a fear. Still, Augustin could not say that he did not have great ambitions.

“My lord, you ask a very dangerous question,” Augustin said carefully. “I think that, obviously, I cannot lie to you, for you could easily Truth Read me or infer a lie by my refusing to let myself be read.”

“I could,” Thayer Coris admitted.

“And for a man to say he is without ambitions is almost always a lie in my experience,” Augustin said. “But I do not want to say the sort of thing that would make you think I harbored thoughts of treason.”

“You have not answered my question,” Thayer said quietly, after a few moments of silence.

But Augustin had no intention of answering it either, at least not yet. “Perhaps you could answer a question first,” he ventured. “I have already revealed much to you, without any assurances. Why did you ask me here?”

“I have already told you,” Thayer said. “My concern for the state of Gwynedd bade me call you here tonight.”

Suddenly, Galina broke in to speak. “My lords, do not hedge here,” she warned. “There is a great potential for dialogue, but not without a leap of faith on both sides.”

Thayer flashed her a look of stern warning, “Galina…” he said.

But she cut him easily off saying, “Thayer, you must also put fears aside and trust.”  
There was a silence in the room, though Augustin knew implicitly that the discussion between husband and wife had not ended. The countess seemed to have something in mind which her husband found objectionable.

“Was there something specific you had in mind, my lady?” Augustin ventured after a few awkward moments.

But instead of answering, Galina abruptly stood, her green skirts rustling as she moved out of the room.

“Have I said something to offend?” Augustin asked mildly.

Thayer looked as if he wanted to groan at Augustin’s informality and almost lighthearted attitude in the face of matters so serious. Inwardly, Augustin berated himself for acting so casual. Some of it, he knew, he had picked up at court in Beldour, where his own relationship with Konstantine had made him his lover’s unofficial jester, there to lighten his mood. Some of it though was his own personality, unable to exorcise.

Thayer started to reply, but Augustin quickly cut him off with a short apology. Again, for a moment, the room paused with silence. But then Thayer broke the silence before Galina could re-enter the room.

“Your highness,” he said, “I’m afraid any training I’ve had is betraying me now. My wife feels strongly that we, you and I, must trust each other for the sake of Gwynedd. To that end, she has suggested that we establish rapport.”

Augustin drew in a breath. Thayer looked as though he could hardly face the prince, his face was turned slightly toward the dining room fire, which he could easily see from his place near the edge of the archway.

“I have to admit a great deal of misgiving about her proposal,” Thayer said. “But, if your highness is willing, then I am as well. My fears for the state of Gwynedd are not slight and I can only pray our aims are the same. But to merely speak of them… Well, I feel we have already managed to alienate one another.” Thayer paused and came to sit on the chair opposite the prince’s. “My esteemed wife is perhaps right. We must learn to trust one another, if this is to work.”

Augustin, thrown by this proposal, was unsure about what to say. He had a rigorous training in his own powers, it was true. But he often felt it was little more than training. His experiences with serious psychic rapport were limited to Gwen McLain, in their youth, and Konstantine. His own father seemed to be utterly Haldane about his powers. In this sense, he seemed to see them as an appendage to himself rather than truly a part of him. Augustin tended toward the other extreme, seeing his powers as integral to who he was. But whether he really lived that was another question altogether. There were few Deryni at the court in Rhemuth outside the Camberian scholae. And at Beldour, there was reason not to be so free in such sharings of one’s soul.

But before he could say anything, Thayer’s countess reentered the room, sashaying back in, carrying only a small black bag and a thick candle.

She looked intently at Augustin, her black as night eyes meeting his Haldane gray. Seeming to like what she saw, she gave him a small smile, her eyes turning to little more than slits with the movement.

“You will accept,” she said, quietly, but without the hesitancy of a whisper.

Augustin nodded, glancing across at Thayer, who was still wrapped as tightly as possible in his shields, but outwardly seemed at least a little relieved at Augustin’s agreement.

“I’m afraid I come from a tradition of magic that’s quite ritualized,” Galina said. “It is, perhaps, different from the less formalized, perhaps more pragmatic traditions that I have observed here at Rhemuth. Your scholae seems always concerned with what works, not what is traditional. Not that I fault them for it. But I find I am always more at ease with the traditions in which I was raised. And for a start such as this one, it only seems appropriate to be a little formal. In any case, I suspect you may know this particular spell.” She held out the candle and placed it on the low table between the two men.

“I do,” Augustin admitted. “Sister Gwen taught me when I was still a child.”

“And she even younger than you,” Galina said, raising her brow. “I’ve often heard she might be called a prodigy, in more ways than one. Female healers are extremely rare.”

“Yes,” Augustin agreed, smiling despite his nervousness. “She is special.”

Thayer Coris’s countess shifted into the background as he sat forward in his chair and picked up the candle. “The room, my lady,” he said, giving her a commanding glance.

A moment later, Augustin felt wards raised in the room, a sort of protective glow over the whole space. She had obviously prepared the room earlier, either in anticipation of this specific working or because this room was often used for such situations. Galina moved to the windows and shut the thick curtains to the outside world. They would not be observed.

Augustin placed his hands with Thayer’s, the candle held between them. Each of them took several deep breaths, expelling the mutual misgivings they held. For several long moments, Augustin breathed deeply and centered. His shields became paper thin as he released his tension.

Then he heard Thayer’s voice within his mind, saying, Let us be…

The words were, perhaps, slightly different from what he had learned from Gwen so many years ago. But the words didn’t really matter. They were nothing more than a bulwark for the magic.

Augustin closed his eyes a final time and, letting his outermost shields slip down, he felt Thayer do the same as they met and began the meld.

There was nothing easy about it at first. On both sides, apprehension made the contact perhaps more rough than either of them would have normally been. It seemed to take an eternity before they have both recentered and focused together, letting down their more inner shields.

There would, of course, be things neither wanted, or in fact, needed, to share with the other. Augustin knew secrets from Torenth and aspects of relationships that were best kept to himself. But as each of them let slip those final protections to the other, the candle between them lit.

There was much more to Thayer’s concern for Gwynedd than Augustin would have ever imagined. Thayer was at least as familiar with the problems faced by Gwynedd on all fronts. He also feared Allard’s rule, knowing from his experience that Allard would make a mediocre leader at best. His fears about Augustin’s rule were also there, but tempered by the knowledge that Augustin could lead. Nor was Thayer the only one. He represented a number of lords, most prestigiously, Duke Ewan and, much to Augustin’s shock, Duke Conner. All them wanted to support Augustin’s candidacy as heir, though they feared to do so. Thayer feared the mark of treason most of all. He was not unaware that his family had once been branded with that particular label and executed for those crimes.

But there was more of Thayer Coris, the man. Augustin saw flashes of Thayer’s youth in Marley, the depth of his love for Galina, his memories of his father, his adoration of his young son. Most clear were Thayer’s recollections of his uncle, Ephraim, who was a Knight of the Anvil far away in the Forcinn. Ephraim was responsible for much of his nephew’s more magical training. And from this Augustin realized the extent to which Thayer was a master adept at this craft, experienced beyond anyone Augustin had dealt with, including any of the members of the Camberian Council. He held the secrets to ritual magic that Augustin had never even imagined.

In turn, Augustin shared his own inner struggles that had plagued him over the last months and years. His ambitions that were tempered by his own loyalties. Most fearfully, he shared as well, his relationship with Konstantine and its subsequent end.

He found Thayer, with his meticulously well ordered mind, disapproved but was willing to set aside that disapproval in favor of the other aspects of this prince he had found.

The rapport was near perfect, once both sides had managed to relax and fully explore it. They were, perhaps, the least likely of allies and colleagues. Thayer was strict and moral in his outlook while Augustin’s personality, even he would admit, was casual and his mind ordered only to his satisfaction. Still, through rapport, they formed an intimate understanding of each other.

Emerging, Augustin opened his eyes and shook out his neck from the crick it had began developing by leaning against the side of the chair. Thayer had clearly not shifted his position at all and for that, Augustin risked a grin.

Immediately, he was sorry he had. Thayer was not, he now knew, so informal with others. But as Augustin pulled back his smile, Thayer shook his head.

“Do you really think that’s necessary, my prince?” he asked.

“Lord Coris…” Augustin began to say.

But again, Thayer stopped him. “I think, perhaps, you do not fully understand,” he said gently. “I have given you my support, your highness. And I would hope you might count me a friend.” After a pause, he added. “I know you were hesitant to share some of the things you shared. But a good man does not always make good decisions, he only wrestles with the attempt.”

Augustin, meeting his new friend’s eyes, realized that he was also smiling and felt free to return the look.

“I trust that there is now a greater understanding between the two of you?” Galina said quietly from where she sat in the corner of the room.

Thayer stood and went to her side, taking and kissing her hand. “My love, I shall not argue with your counsel in the future. I swear your instincts are always right.”

And with their touch, now that Thayer was no longer wrapped so tightly, his feelings so securely concealed, Augustin felt just the slightest spillover of shared emotion and he knew that the love Thayer had revealed to him for this wife was only the smallest iota of what existed between them.

Turning from his wife to look again at Augustin, Thayer said seriously, “We must be busy. I will speak with Conner McLain when he arrives. He has been away, but many are coming to court now to debate the coming war. There will be no empty seats on his majesty’s council. You must go ahead with your nuptial plans. You are right that the start of advent is perfect timing. In the meantime, I will begin to spread word about our cause.”

Breaking into yet another grin, Augustin merely said to his new friend, “Thank you, Thayer. I appreciated what we shared tonight.”

Thayer nodded. “Yes, Augustin,” he said, abandoning formality in a manner he knew would please the laid-back prince. “As did I.”

 

Chapter Seven

Events moved swiftly after Augustin and Thayer Coris made their alliance. Christmas court seemed to have begun early that year as lords from all over Gwynedd poured into Rhemuth to debate the coming war. Still, King Roydon refused to admit that a war was coming at all. And his frustration with his younger son seemed to grow daily. In fact, the dissatisfaction many people felt for Augustin grew steadily over the next month leading up to the start of the advent season. Many unattached ladies at court were jealous of Eliza Holden’s catch. Gwen was discouraged by Augustin’s sudden abandonment of their long friendship. The Camberian Council to which she belonged was annoyed with the rift that Augustin’s unexplained behavior was causing amongst their members. The supporters of Roydon’s caution about engaging the Moors in war, including Prince Allard, were frustrated most of all as talk of Augustin’s support for such a war began spreading slowly through Rhemuth.

Of course, Allard had other problems to contend with that autumn. As the weather turned colder even earlier than usual, Allard experienced a slow but steady decline in health.

On the one hand, illness was nothing new for the crown prince of Gwynedd. Nary a winter had gone by without Allard facing some serious ailment. But this was an early start to the season for him. And everyone knew it. Allard’s increasing absences from the king’s council could not be ignored.

Prince Allard himself realized that something more was amiss. As Gwen came to tend him daily without much avail, his spirits grew worse and worse. One rainy morning, the rain threatening to turn to snow even at such an early date, Gwen came to visit her patient in his rooms, only to find him unable to get out of bed.

She immediately fussed at the servants and Allard’s squire, Athal, who practically cowered at the young nun’s berating.

“Why wasn’t I called?” she demanded.

But Allard himself had refused to allow her to be brought from her rooms at the schola.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” he said. “I simply retired later than I had intended. I thought I would feel better in the morning.”

“You’re horrible at diagnosing your own condition,” Gwen railed at him. “In the future, let me do my job and judge when I am needed. Do you hear that, Squire Athal? If you suspect I am needed, you will ignore what Prince Allard tells you about fetching me. I am to be summoned at once. Am I understood?”

Gwen did what she could to abate the raging fever that Allard had that morning. By noon, she had eased him down to normal and sent him away to sleep until supper time.

The king visited his son and was spared the frank details by Sister Gwen. But when Augustin came, having heard that Allard’s condition was grave, Gwen spared him nothing.

“It’s no mere cold this time,” she said. “It’s pneumonia.”

“But you can cure pneumonia,” Augustin said.

“But I can’t cure whatever’s causing it,” Gwen complained. She glanced hesitatingly at Allard’s sleeping figure in the room. Despite her best efforts, he still slept fitfully, shown by how he had pushed the layers of blankets askew. The room seemed tight and over warm to both Gwen and Augustin. Allard seemed to still alternate between kicking off his heavy blankets and huddling beneath them. “Gus, he’s dying. Why can’t I do anything about it?”

“Have you seen Father Corey about his condition?” Augustin asked.

“Not today,” Gwen said. “He’s in Valoret. Your good friend, the archbishop, fell from his horse and twisted his ankle. It’s nothing serious, but Father Eduard went to heal him.” She sighed deeply. “Not that it would make any difference, you know. It’s nothing new really. God forgive me, but Allard always makes me face my shortcomings.”

“You healers always want to be in control of everything,” Augustin said, giving Gwen a small smile. “You think you have as much power as God.”

“That’s blasphemy, Gus,” Gwen said, shooting him a look of contempt. “Never that.”

“I’m sorry, Sister,” he apologized.

Suddenly, she crumpled in the chair overlooking Allard’s bed. Tears streamed down her pale cheeks. Her disheveled auburn hair poked out from her habit and she now looked her age rather than the stern matron she sometimes seemed. “Don’t mock me now, Augustin,” she said. “If you cannot support me…”

But Augustin had already moved to her side, positioning himself in the closest chair and reaching a hand out to brush her arm. She crumpled into his arms, crying herself out on his shoulder as he pulled the habit from her hair and held her gently. After a few moments, a quiet rapport built between the two of them, the first one in a long time. But these two friends had long known one another so intimately.

After some time, Augustin stood up, saying only, “I had better leave before my brother wakes up. But tell him I called on him, Sister.”

“I will,” Gwen promised.

When Allard awoke, Gwen forced soup down his throat and continued monitoring his vital signs. It was not until quite late that she returned to her own quarters. After mass the next morning, she was met by her brother.

Conner McLain had been at court for almost a week, but Gwen had not seen him since his return. The Cassan duke was Gwen’s senior by almost a decade, but the familial resemblance was still unmistakable. Conner wore his hair plaited into a border braid. The curly strands probably wouldn’t have allowed themselves to be contained by anything less. The auburn of his hair was only slightly darker than his sister’s. In that respect he favored his mother slightly. But his pale freckled face mirrored Gwen’s perfectly. And the way he furrowed his brow when upset and raised his eyebrows when amused were two family traits that anyone, with close inspection, would have recognized in both McLain children.

But their family reunion was tempered by the knowledge that Gwen was tending a dying patient, whose illness held grave consequences for all of them.

“Augustin told me I ought to come see you,” Conner said. “I’m sorry I hadn’t called on you yet, Sister. But I have been busy.”

“Augustin told you?” Gwen said, raising a single eyebrow. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t have time for intrigue at the moment. I was just on my way back to see to Prince Allard.”

“May I walk with you?” Conner asked. “Your Abbess won’t think it impudent, will she?”

Gwen practically snorted. “It’s been a long time since I had to deal with the over watchful eyes of the St. Brigid’s abbess, dear brother. People here give me leeway to do what I will. I wear my habit fringed with green and it is like my permit to go where I want and associate with whomever I like.”

“How convenient for you,” Conner commented, allowing her to gather things into her heavy leather bag and sling it over her shoulder before turning to leave the offices.

Gwen nodded. “Convenient. Yes, that’s probably the best way to describe it.”

“You would say otherwise?” Conner asked.

“Nay,” Gwen said. “I need it thus, to do my work. But perhaps ‘tis a little strange. Sometimes I think am I seen as a thing apart. Not animal or mineral or vegetable.”

“Not woman or priest or nun,” Conner ventured.

“Aye,” Gwen said. “That’s it exactly.”

“You are unique,” Conner said. “Healing talents rediscovered more than a century past and yet you are the first female healer. Don’t be so surprised that no one knows what to do with you, Sister.”

“I know, Conner,” Gwen said, releasing a long breath. “But don’t let’s dwell on this. Tell me, how is Fergus? And Maura?”

And with that, the two siblings were plunged into conversation about people and things from home, so that Conner could tell her about all the things from home she missed. Gwen particularly missed Fergus, whom she had not seen since his knighting the previous year. In return, she told Conner of the library Fergus had sent to her and what insights she had been gaining about their many greats grandfather, Dhugal. Then she told him how James Killey was doing. He was an old family friend but one Conner rarely had an opportunity to see.

By the time they reached Allard’s rooms, they were ushered in by several of his servants, all of whom were anxious seemed relieved at Gwen’s arrival. She touched briefly on their minds, catching the impression of Allard’s annoyance at being confined to bed and the servants’ fear of keeping him there against his will. No wonder they were happy to see her.

She passed the impression to Conner with a crease in her brow. “This is the sort of authority I must wield now. The power to confine crown princes to their beds.”

“If it comes to a physical confrontation,” he whispered, a wry edge to his voice, “I think I can hold him off, Sister.”

Gwen shook her head at Conner’s quip. But inside Allard’s bedroom, it nearly did come to that. They found Allard sitting up in bed, wide awake but his fever returned. It would be an understatement to say that he was out of sorts.

“Sister Gwen,” he said in his most imposing voice, “my servants think to keep me in bed on your orders. Please tell them now that I am well enough to get up and attend my father this afternoon.”

But Gwen could only shake her head. “Your highness, I’m afraid that is for me to say. Let me just…”

“No,” Allard exploded. “I feel much rested today, Sister, and I intend to get up and get dressed. I cannot stay in this bed any longer.”

“If it is absolutely necessary that your highness get out of bed,” Gwen said, “then perhaps I can arrange a visit to Princess Megan’s solar. A visit to see your highness’s sister would not be too taxing. But I cannot allow you to go gallivanting about. And attendance at the king’s council is out of the question. It would be too stressful.”

“You cannot order me about,” Allard complained.

“I can and will,” Gwen insisted.

“By what authority…” Allard began, but Gwen cut him off by putting just a slight pressure on the controls she had set on him the night before.

“You see, your highness,” she explained, “there is no point in argument. If I will it, you will go to sleep and forget about this outburst.”

Conner crept into the room after Gwen, watching with distaste the tantrum Allard threw. “Your highness,” he interrupted, “must be overwrought. Please don’t fight Gwen. She only has your best interests at heart.”

Gwen went to sit by the prince’s side. “I know it’s hard to stay in bed, Allard,” she said soothingly. “But I know you know how to be a better patient than this.”

As Allard became aware of the Duke of Cassan’s presence in the room, he seemed to mellow somewhat. As Gwen laid her hands on him, Allard practically crumpled under her touch. “I’m sorry, Sister. It’s just not been this long before, not for ages. I don’t think I can take much more of this. I know you can’t simply fix it all, but damn it, I don’t understand why you can’t heal it.”

“Easy,” Gwen said, exchanging a look with her brother at Allard’s use of profanity. It only served to highlight the way in which she was not a nun, not even a woman, to the eyes of much of anyone. She was something else entirely.

“Lower your shields, Allard,” she whispered. “Open yourself to me so I can help. Don’t fight me now.”

For only a moment, she worried he would fight it. Allard had long endured the proddings of physicians and healers, in particular herself and she had never seen him so out of sorts. On the one hand, he was right. Over the last few years, he had not spent so many days abed at once. But nor had he gotten so much better that this downturn was a surprise. But then he did open to her, letting her in to heal. She began by striking the balance in her own energies, letting her body feel whole and complete, before she delved into the chaos that was Allard’s health. In him, she started by exploring the simplest things, his breathing, his temperature, his pulse. Control of these things, she had found, could often be learned by other Deryni, those without the healing gift. But to her their control came much more naturally.

He was still burning with fever. No wonder he had felt so irritable. Gwen hesitated to alleviate the fever though she could. For the past days, it had kept returning. Fever, she knew, could burn out the disease sometimes. If this fever kept returning, it might have meant the body still needed to burn the illness out. But Gwen knew she could not let it rage out of control. This would mean another long day sitting with her patient to keep the fever in check.

But in order to understand the illness, she delved deeper. The body knew there was something wrong. Everything seemed possible for her to heal, but when she tried to unlock the power to do so, she came up cold. She pushed herself deeper and again found the knot of disease that always sat within Allard. Projecting wellness, she fought against it for what seemed like an eternity. The balance within her was projected onto Allard’s frail form.

Yet when Gwen emerged, she felt the futility of what she had just done. Allard slept now. And Conner stood silently having watched his sister at her task.

“Were you able to help him?” Conner asked.

“I gave him as much strength as I could,” Gwen said. “I don’t think I could stand myself now even if my own life depended on it.”

“Gwen!”

“Don’t worry, Conner,” she said. “I can rest here. I’ll be fine after awhile. I’m just drained at the moment.”

“I worry that one day you’ll go too deep,” Conner sighed. “Especially with Allard. He demands so much of you.”

“Aye,” she admitted. “But do not blame him overmuch. His attitude today… the illness drains him to the point of no control as well.”

“Does it affect his mind?” Conner asked quietly.

Gwen shook her head. “No, but that is a possibility. His behavior… it is simply the raging fever and the weariness that causes it.”

Conner inclined his head in a nod of understanding. “Is there anything I can do for you, Sister?”

Gwen tried to stifle a yawn. “I’m afraid I’ll fall asleep. Allard should be fine now, at least for a while. But just in case, can you have the servants come in and check on the both of us periodically. If they feel his fever come back in force, they should wake me and then put cold cloths over his forehead and body.”

“I’ll inform the squire,” Conner promised. “Get some rest.”

But Gwen had already closed her eyes and leaned her head back in the stuffed chair.

As Conner walked away from the prince’s rooms, he reflected on what he had seen. Certainly, it seemed that Allard’s illness had taken a turn for the worse. But how much did that really mean? It had been bad before as well.

Even more fascinating to him was the opportunity to watch his sister work. There were so few healers in Gwynedd. There had been a time, before the interregnum, when there had been hundreds of healers in Gwynedd. Specially set up schools had trained them.

Now it was hard to imagine the need for a whole school just for healers. In all of Gwynedd, there were, as far as anyone knew, only fourteen healers. In the lands outside of Gwynedd, there were only eight more. Twenty-one men and one woman didn’t make for much of a school, Conner thought. Of the fourteen healers in Gwynedd, a full nine of those were cousins somehow of his and Gwen’s own. Eduard Corey was a distant cousin, though the bloodline was removed by more than a century. Their first cousin, Dunham McLain, was also a healer, only a little older than Gwen.

Watching his sister always amazed him. But this time, it also fed his fear that she would go too deep somehow and not emerge. If not with Allard, then perhaps with another patient. They knew so little about how healing powers worked. So much had been lost.

That worried him, though he would never admit it. His wife, Maura, was with child again and she suspected, with Dunham’s confirmation, that this child would be a healer. He would have to tell Gwen, but not today.

The work ahead of him was all to do with that council meeting Allard had wanted to attend and he himself had managed to miss in his desire to spend the morning with his younger sister. It would be almost over at this point. After it adjourned, Conner would meet with several of the participants. They had some convincing to do.

Duke Ewan, God bless him, always trusted Thayer Coris to tell him the truth. He had no qualms about where Thayer’s knowledge came from. When Thayer said to trust that he knew Augustin would be loyal to Gwynedd, Ewan accepted that. It was convincing some of the other human lords that would bring difficulties. But they had to make their move, and soon. It was all the better that Allard was out of commission.

In the vestibule outside the king’s council chamber, Conner saw Thayer Coris lingering and speaking with Duke Addan. Addan would be the sticking point, Conner knew that. With Duke Kelvin almost automatically on the king’s side, that meant they desperately needed Addan’s Carthmoor ports and troops on their side. With Addan, they were the majority of territory in Gwynedd. Without him, they were less than half of the council and had no chance of swaying the king.

As Conner approached, he realized that he was walking into a full blown argument. No one else was around to witness it, which was lucky enough, Conner decided. He extended his senses to listen, but was only able to hear Addan’s last words before he stormed off. “…with unholy assurances!” the Carthmoor duke practically hissed at Thayer.

“What happened?” Conner asked as he approached Thayer.

Thayer shook his head and laid a hand on Conner’s broad shoulder, sending him the details of the conversation. Thayer had cornered Addan after the council meeting in the hopes of convincing him to at least come and hear Augustin out. Addan had long trusted Thayer. He had certainly trusted Thayer’s father. But apparently, Thayer’s insistence that he had seen into Augustin’s very soul and knew his motives to be true, was unsettling to the human Addan and not reassuring at all.

“This is terrible news,” Conner complained after Thayer had shown him the conversation.

“I know,” Thayer said. “But what can I do about it? I’ll see if Ewan will go talk to him later after he settles down.”

“He’s lost now, that’s the end of it,” Conner said. “Now what will we do?”

“There are others.”

“Kelvin Morgan, Monsignor MacAllan, Bevan Haldane, Gervaise of the Purple March, Glen Braden, Prince Allard, Ralson, Ramsay and now Addan as well… They’re all going to side with the king.”

“Ramsay is dying. And in Meara.”

“Allard is dying as well. But we must deal with the balance as it is now!”

“Easy, my friend,” Thayer said. “Perhaps Prince Augustin has made progress with our lord archbishop. And if he joins our cause, we might sway Monsignor MacAllan.”

“For once, I’m sorry he’s an honest cleric,” Conner complained. There’s no way he will listen to Burne unless he must. With good reason.”

“Conner,” Thayer said soothingly, “relax. There is still time. There’s no need to panic so early.”

Conner sighed and pulled his emotions under control. How Thayer could stay so in control all the time amazed him. Of all the people he knew, only Gwen seemed to share that particular talent. But perhaps if he had Thayer’s magical training he would be able to do the same.

“I’m frustrated is all,” he complained.

“Come. Let’s go meet up with Augustin. He’s been working slowly on convincing Jenas. He’s actually quite brilliant. Have you seen him when he gets started?”

That was another thing that amazed Conner. Thayer had been their most outspoken opponent of Augustin. He was all but convinced the prince would betray them all to King Konstantine. Not that Konstantine was an enemy, but it would not do to have a king of Gwynedd with loyalties to another sovereign.

But since Thayer met with Augustin, he had been convinced of the prince’s sincerity. More than that, Thayer was convinced of Augustin’s honor, even his greatness. While Conner had long admired Augustin’s skill with the bow, the sword, and on a horse, he would not have expected Thayer to look beyond the prince’s improprieties to see these virtues. But it had become more than that between Thayer and Augustin, Conner realized. He would almost wager to say that Thayer knew some part of Augustin that even his sister Gwen did not know, though she had worked so closely with the prince for so long.

Indeed, when they arrived at the library, they found Jenas fully convinced when he had been no more than a possible ally before. Augustin had, indeed, worked his charms on the middle aged earl.

Admittedly, Jenas and Simon d’Errial and a couple of the other lords already sympathized by the idea that Gwynedd ought not shirk its duty by abandoning its alliances with Bremange. But for them to support Augustin’s bid to command their troops was another step entirely, especially with King Roydon’s well-known feud with his younger son. Duke Ewan’s presence with their cause certainly helped as well. The elder duke was well respected, in large part because he had had charge of the training of many of the younger lords as youngsters at court.

“We ought to keep a sheet of tallies,” Conner said. “Fifteen members is too many for a royal council.”

“Assuming Burne will give his support, we’re evenly matched,” Augustin said. “I think that’s not a terrible position at the moment, especially considering how many troops we bring. Dukes Ewan, Conner and Addan have combined troop numbers larger than anything my father commands.”

Thayer broke the news about Addan Haldane then. “He is too unsure of you, my prince.”

Augustin swore under his breath. “Is it Konnie?” he asked, cursing himself.

Conner raised an eyebrow at that, but Thayer said simply, “No. Not the way you think anyway. He worries about your ties to Torenth. We have had a long peace with Torenth, but it has not always been thus. And with the pressure on Torenth in her east, many fear Konstantine will look west and may find his ties with you – whatever their nature – just the way into Gwynedd.”

“Konstantine would never…”

“You know that, my prince,” Thayer said smoothly. “But there is no way to convince Addan. Certainly not as you convinced me.”

Augustin sighed, running a hand through his thick, dark hair. “I shouldn’t complain, I know. But all this plotting is making me weary. It almost makes one yearn for the war.”

Conner smiled, for he understood Augustin’s anxiousness to get into the battle. Like Augustin, Conner had fought before, if only in border skirmishes around the Connait and against petty Mearan peasant revolts around his own lands. But Thayer Coris grimaced.

“By spring you’ll remember all the plotting fondly,” the Marley lord promised, going over to stand behind Augustin’s chair, laying a hand on the prince’s shoulder and massaging the tightness in his muscles. “By then you’ll be more than tired of the fighting and you’ll yearn to be back in Rhemuth with your lovely bride.”

Conner raised an eyebrow at that comment as well, unsure if Thayer was making an uncharacteristic joke. But he seemed quite serious and Augustin didn’t seem to be offended by the comment. Instead, the prince merely expelled another long sigh and began complaining of his wedding plans.

The wedding was, indeed, quite a sticking point. Even more than the war, it had become the buzz of the court. Prince Guy seemed to be almost the only one peeved at the fact that it was getting more attention than the coming war. With good reason, though, for it would be his lands ravaged by the onslaught of Moors if King Roydon refused to come to their aid. Everyone else seemed eager to discuss the younger royal prince’s sudden dive into matrimony.

Many, of course, said it was nothing more than a ploy, for support, for the Archbishop’s favor, for his father’s forgiveness. Some believed it to be a ploy, not by Augustin, but by the archbishop, who was whispered to be corrupt. He was using his niece to gain control of the man who might one day be king. Others were wary, but unsure what exactly Augustin was playing at. Still others, particularly many of the ladies in waiting, had seen Augustin’s careful wooing of the heiress and believed his motives to be quite chivalrous. The more romantic of these hopefuls believed he was in love.

Augustin was nothing of the sort. Still, his wooing had not been entirely a sham, for even he did not like the idea of marriage to a girl who might not even like him. He liked even less the idea that he might marry a woman who would seek to control him for outside forces or family. He was increasingly relieved on that front as Eliza showed herself to be, as he had suspected, her own woman, and one who was willing to devote herself to him.

But it was still a ploy. The cynics were not entirely wrong. And Augustin suspected that he would never really love Eliza, and that, no matter what she might say about it, she might not be able to forgive him. She might become a liability for him. His anxiety about that could not be abated. Nor could his feeling that he was committing a terrible sin by manipulating her, her uncle, and the church all through the sacrament of marriage.

If he were to reconcile with Konstantine, could he even manage to be faithful to her? Even if he didn’t reconcile with Konnie, he wasn’t sure if he could be faithful.

But those thoughts, in particular, were best avoided by Augustin’s way of thinking. Better to just get the marriage over with. Once he had, he suspected, all of Burne’s dissembling and hedging over the war and his support of Augustin as general would dissipate.

As the wedding, still scheduled for the Saturday after the start of advent, was only a week away, Augustin spent most of the next day engrossed in the preparations. Eliza had few relatives, which was all to Augustin’s relief. He had too many relatives, but they were mostly avoiding him. Megan seemed to be the family representative to the talks, whether by her own initiative of some design was yet to be seen.

Certainly, Eliza seemed bolstered by Megan’s presence. The two of them had schemes aplenty for the floral arrangements, the dress, the food. Augustin was pleased enough to see Eliza happy about the ceremony of it all, but he also wanted to stay out of it as much as possible.

“There’s so little in season right now,” Megan complained as they sat in her solar, discussing the arrangements.

“Luckily, I love mistletoe,” Eliza pointed out. “It’s quite available at the moment. And fitting for the advent season as well as romantic.”

Megan’s motives were a mystery to Augustin. Perhaps she helped out of friendship to Eliza. But there was also the possibility that she had another agenda. Had she set up his newfound friendship with Thayer or was it merely a coincidence? Her husband, Glen Braden, stood so staunchly against Augustin. Did she not share his opinions?

From her position next to Eliza on the sofa, Megan looked at Augustin and smiled. “Do you have an opinion about the garlands, brother?”

Augustin shook his head. “Whatever the two of you choose is fine with me,” he said. “I don’t want to seem disinterested, but unlike some of the court, I do have other things on my mind. Are there other things I need to be consulted about?”

“I hate to bring up a delicate subject,” Megan said. “But there is still the issue of our father’s attendance.”

Augustin smiled. “If he comes, I would be honored. But if he doesn’t… well, how can I force any man, much less a king, to do anything?”

“Allard’s attendance isn’t in question, of course.”

“He’s been bedridden for days now. I assume he won’t come.”

Megan shook her head. “You assume wrong. If he can get up, he’ll undoubtedly be there.”

He can ill afford to be missed at so public a function. You forget that the public charade of his illness being only minor continues, though we all know better, Megan added so that only Augustin could hear.

“Ah. I see.”

Megan and Eliza then returned to their talk of the wedding décor, leaving Augustin to muse further about his sister’s mysterious attitudes and opinions.

 

Chapter Eight

The wedding took place as scheduled and, with the early arrival of the court, was in many ways the event of the season. The meticulous planning of the bride and her companions paid off, for the chapel looked beautiful, bedecked in garlands of mistletoe and holly, a theme continued at the banquet that followed. White suited Eliza Holden, who looked, many whispered, fit to be a queen in her flowing dress of silk and lace.

As the archbishop took them through the familiar rituals, Augustin said a silent prayer that he be forgiven for any harm he might cause this woman now kneeling at his side. He was nervous, but resolved. Eliza seemed much the same.

Allard had rallied enough that he attended the ceremony. He looked pale and thinner than usual, but he was good at putting on a strong face, having practiced at it much of his life. Still, Gwen sat next to him on the pew, glancing aside at him often, letting any who knew her as well as her brother or the groom did that she had not been in favor of Allard leaving his bed. On the crown prince’s other side sat his father. King Roydon had no part in the ceremony, but his presence certainly sanctioned the marriage in the eyes of many. The king even seemed to be smiling at some points, giving voice to the suspicion that marriage might help reconcile the prince with his father.

The feast after the wedding itself was limited to only a few of the courtiers who had attended at the cathedral. Augustin had been well aware that too large a gathering would have drawn undue attention to him, especially if his father had decided not to come. Luckily, any dark mood had been dispelled by Roydon’s arrival and the banquet was jovial. Even Augustin managed to enjoy himself.

Megan and her ladies entertained the gathering by playing music. Augustin discovered that Eliza herself had a beautiful singing voice, pure and light, able to hit every note perfectly. He would not have guessed she was such a competent musician. Her knowledge of different traditions was also apparent as she led them in a round singing an old Corwyn wedding song, quite outside her own tradition.

For his part, Augustin sang first a Cassan wedding tune, one Gwen had reminded him of before the feast, and second a Torenthi wedding song that he knew from his time there. Like a lot of Torenthi music, that one was almost a chant, one that came out perhaps better in a round, but Augustin’s tenor made it sound sufficiently evocative, even if few there understood the religious chorus.

Megan then urged Eliza forward to present Augustin with a gift, much to his surprise. In her hand, she carried a glass dish holding two tiny Torenthi wedding cakes, each one topped with a single rose petal.

“My lord,” she said quietly as she held them out to him, “your sister suggested that I make you these. She explained to me the tradition.”

Augustin smiled. The bride had to make her own cakes. Nothing else would do. It was said that if the recipe was done perfectly, the newlyweds would conceive a child on their wedding night.

Taking the plate from Eliza, Augustin placed it on the table and picked up one of the cakes to feed to her. She did the same in turn to him. Inside, he could taste the sweet layers of rose petals. As he fed Eliza hers, she seemed to be tasting the foreign sensation, rolling it over her tongue and deciding that she liked it.

After that, the guests began taking their leave and servants began clearing the food from the tables. Megan and several of her other ladies led the blushing Eliza out and away, leading to Augustin’s great relief.

“I’m glad to have that over with,” he said aside to Conner, who gave him the strangest look.

“What do you mean?”

“All this,” Augustin said. “The wedding and everything that comes with it.”

“Well, not everything,” Conner pointed out.

* * *  
The following day brought a great council of war between the powers involved. Such a grand scale assemblage was encouraged behind the scenes by the Camberian Council and much more publicly by King Konstantine, who felt it would show Roydon up greatly.

The planned attendance included King Roydon and King Konstantine as well as Prince Guy of Bremagne, Princess Nerasina of Andelon, Zahar of the Knights of the Anvil, the Hort of Orsal’s heir, Jonham, and Earl Broylon of Howicce. In conspicuous absence was Prince Allard, who had been forbidden to get out of bed by Gwen McLain. He had acquiesced without too much argument. If he had attended, many might have become well aware just how ill he was. Instead, Roydon had engaged the Earl of Carcashale, Glen Braden, to assist him at the meeting.

Augustin, fresh from having staged the massive coup of gaining Archbishop Burne’s support on the royal council, decided that this was one meeting he simply refused to miss.  
* * *

The lords gathered in Roydon’s council chambers, but with the exception of Guy, who was already there, and Earl Broylon, who had arrived by ship, all the foreign dignitaries arrived by portal and were escorted to the chamber. Augustin decided Konstantine was his best chance at getting into the meeting.

Unfortunately, Bevan Haldane had been given charge of monitoring the schola portal where the guests were expected to arrive. Any distraction to get him away would be extremely difficult to manufacture. They could not use any Deryni trickery. After all, Bevan was Deryni and the portal was in the midst of the Deryni schola where anyone might have detected their tampering.

“We’ll have to find some other way of getting to King Konstantine,” Thayer said, as they discussed it the night before, pulled away in a corner amid the celebrations of Augustin’s wedding.

“I can’t simply go to him in Beldour,” Augustin complained. “For one thing, I don’t know for sure where he is. He might be in Torenthaly. And he could be using any portal tomorrow. I have no idea.”

“More importantly,” Thayer said, “you can’t be away from Rhemuth under any circumstances. It has to seem to your father that King Konstantine insisted of his own accord that you be present.”

“It has to seem that way to Konnie too,” Augustin said.

“But that, I think, will be no problem,” Thayer said. “He has every reason to demand your presence there. He’ll think it will be good for his side.”

“In truth, it will,” Augustin said. “Though perhaps not the way he wants.” He mused for a few more moments. “So how do we get a message to him? You can’t simply go there. I might give you the location of a portal there, but Konnie’s retainers aren’t familiar with you. There’s no telling what trouble might arise. We can’t ask Father Corey – there’s no way he would cooperate. We get the same problem with Sister Gwen. Even if Conner asked her, I don’t think she would go along.”

“I had someone else in mind,” Thayer said.

The following morning, as Bevan Haldane waited for the last and perhaps most important guest to come through the schola portal in Rhemuth, he appeared elsewhere, in the castle. At his side was Countess Galina of Marley, followed soon afterward by Lord Nikolous Orenski. Galina had left for Beldour just after the wedding. She had been raised at the court of Konstantine’s uncle and knew many of the Beldour court. Galina went immediately to her husband’s arm, exchanging an unreadable look with him. 

“I must say, I was happy to have word from you,” Konstantine said to Augustin. “When I heard nothing after our last meeting… Well, I wasn’t sure.”

“We should speak privately, your majesty,” Augustin said. “And time is short.”

“Nikolous,” Konstantine said, his voice clipped.

Thayer and Galina escorted the tall Torenthi lord from the room, leaving the prince and the king together alone.

The closed door was Konstantine’s cue to go to Augustin’s side, laying a hand on the prince’s shoulder, his hand reaching up to finger Augustin’s longish black hair.

“Gus, I was miserable after you ran off last time we met,” Konstantine breathed. “Don’t do that to me.”

“If you were so miserable, you might have sent word.”

“You know I couldn’t. Who would carry it?”

As Konstantine moved up against him, Augustin could not say that he did not feel a surge of familiar desire for his longtime lover. As Konstantine ran fingers through his hair, he breathed a deep sigh, relieved by the very physicality of the touch. Part of him longed to simply fall into Konstantine’s arms, to give himself entirely over to that physical relief that so affected his body and mind.

But another part of him reflected, dispassionately, that so much had happened in his mind since he last saw Konstantine, and even more since the last time they had shared a bed. Yet for Konnie, it seemed like nothing had changed. The Torenthi king still played the same games, the same moves, the same lines. Augustin knew he had grown beyond it. No matter how much he might want to be with Konnie, he had set himself down another path, one much more important. And now he had to follow that path.

But to do so required him to walk a very thin line. He could not alienate Konstantine, at least not yet. He would have to gain Konstantine’s support while not falling into his lure.

Augustin allowed his hands to reach up and linger on Konstantine’s neck. “We don’t have long,” he said softly.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Konstantine said, moving to secure Augustin’s embrace.

But Augustin moved away. “We have to talk about more important things, Konnie,” he complained.

“What’s more important than this?”

“Konnie!”

“I know. The war. I hear you’ve been busy, by the way.”

“I have.”

“Should I be jealous of this new bride?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“I don’t think I’m being absurd when you back away after we haven’t seen one another in so many weeks. And before that, months!”

“Konnie, listen to me. By marrying her, I’ve gotten the support of the bishops. Burne’s troops are mine to control. As are Cassan’s, Marley’s, Claibourne’s and several of the other small earldoms. We have half the royal council on our side. They want to go to Bremagne’s aid.”

“What does your father think of this?”

“He’s perturbed that the arguments in the council are dragging on this long. He’s really begun sinking his feet in about it. But he doesn’t realize the extent to which I’m behind the debate. Nor does he realize that Burne has decided firmly on supporting war.”

Konstantine got a sly look on his face. “And you think now is the time to reveal it?”

“One of father’s arguments is that there aren’t troops ready. But Burne’s troops are independent from father’s. He can move them where he will. And he has conveniently moved them to the southern coast. They are training and ready to sail. New ships are being built as well. My other support must wait for father, so they remain to the north, but they are ready to march and have been provisioned with winter gear to help them make the journey. This can be done.”

“Roydon knows nothing of this?”

“Ewan has been the most vocal of my supporters in this. But father trusts him so much, he would not imagine that the duke would mass his troops without informing him. Conner and Thayer and Simon d’Errial are another story. But their support for war has been quieter. I don’t think my pigheaded father realizes a thing.”

“Roydon will be furious with me if I bring you to this meeting.”

Augustin smiled. Now was the time to go to Konstantine’s side, to accept, even initiate the embrace they both longed for. “But it will well serve your purposes,” he whispered into the Torenthi king’s ear.

Moments later, rejoining Thayer and Nikolous, who had waited outside the chamber, they made their way toward the meeting. They were the last to arrive. The others stood about the royal council chamber, the gravity of their meeting clearly having put them all into a serious mood. Zahar cut the most imposing figure of the lot. The religious knight was tall and shadowed in his robes, the white sash of his knighthood tied neatly around his waist, the heavy cross on his chest. But in a room with so many sovereigns, heirs and proxies, it was hard to call anyone unimpressive. Even the Orsal’s heir, Jonham, merely nineteen and by far the youngest in the room, carried himself with enough grace and dignity to convey the power he held.

As Konstantine swept into the room, he boldly pulled Augustin to him so that the prince entered on his arm. Augustin inwardly groaned that Konnie had always needed to make a bold entrance wherever he went. Was he trying to rifle Roydon’s emotions?

If that was, indeed, the Torenthi king’s goal, he had succeeded well. As the other emissaries gave their respectful greetings to both Konstantine and Augustin, who seemed, in their eyes, to have every reason to be there, Roydon Haldane at first pretended to ignore their arrival, seeming to look everywhere in the room but toward his youngest son.

Lord Glen, however, greeted the both of them, realizing the impossibility of getting rid of Augustin, at least at this late moment. They would not be able to send him out without making quite a scene. Glen was the ultimate pragmatist, but he still fumed at Augustin’s presence, in part because he knew what it would cost the king.

When Roydon finally did welcome the pair to the room, he was curt and practically rude to Konstantine, who noticed but almost seemed, at least to Augustin, pleased with the negative attention. His son received even less attention than the Torenthi king. Roydon did little more than nod at his middle child, raising a number of eyebrows in the chamber. Roydon would hardly be expected to greet his son with long words or much attention; he would have the opportunity to see him every day. But on the other hand, Roydon’s overly cold attitude did more than merely confirm the rumors about the king’s distant relationship with his son. Several in the room recognized the fact that they might be witnessing a new development in the feud between father and son.

Roydon called their meeting to order, welcoming them all more generally, addressing their purpose there. The Moorish war certainly affected them all. But as soon as he had done so, it became clear that Konstantine was really there to run the show.

With Augustin at his side, seated at one end of the long council table, Konstantine began outlining the danger to the entire west if they ignored this threat. There was no one at the table who was unreceptive to this message. They were all well learned and knew their history. Look how much had been lost with the Moorish invasions more than seven hundred years previous, most especially the Pax Romanum. With the peace established by King Kelson more than a century and a half previous, a similar peace had reigned in the Eleven Kingdoms. No one wanted to see that peace destroyed. And everyone knew the Moors, with this new caliphite, were the biggest threat to that stability.

And Konstantine had something more than simple Deryni tricks of persuasion; he had real charisma. When he spoke, he made sense. Probably his horrific tales of the war itself were the best persuasion.

Jonham’s tales of the war on the Von Horthy front were equally persuasive. And because the young man’s brother had died in a skirmish on the Orsal’s southern border, it lent even greater credence to his words.

Of all the figures in the room, besides Roydon himself, only Lord Broylon might have been expected to object to the prospect of war. Torenth was already at war and with the large number of skirmishes on their borders, the Hort of Orsal was similarly already in a state of conflict with the Moors. Zahar’s knights had been repelling occasional Moorish invasion into the Anvil of the Lord for centuries. Bremagne and Andelon were the next targets.

But Roydon was unaccustomed to being ignored. And while he might have been only one voice in that meeting urging caution, he controlled more territory, troops and power than any other in that room, Konstantine included. The king of Gwynedd simply could not be ignored.

But while they could not ignore him, nor could they ignore their own conviction that this war had to be fought. Princess Nerasina spoke most eloquently when she addressed them.

“I think that we all know the dangers of inaction, my lords. We are bound together by our common faith, albeit in differing forms. If we do not face this danger, stand against it with all our strength, then our enemies will sweep over us like the tide coming in, wiping away the traces of that shared faith. Where they conquer, the words of the prophet hold sway against those of Our Lord. 

“My friends, I am not a avaricious woman. My brother the prince is, in my own humble opinion, a wise enough leader. We enjoy the fruits of our lands and protect our vassals as well as we might. But if we and all our kin were to perish, to lose those lands, I think I could be resigned to it. On the other hand, if those lands were to stray from our faith, I could never accept that, even beyond my own death.”

The princess spoke with quiet resolve, her dark eyes blazing on a pale face framed by a loosely worn deep blue scarf. At an age when some women might have hair streaked with gray, she maintained her raven black without a hint of silver. Everything about the way she carried herself bespoke grace and power.

But while most of the members of this meeting gave vocal support to Nerasina’s words, King Roydon had been slowly becoming more and more agitated. At his side, Lord Glen could see the king’s ire growing, threatening to burst. At Konstantine’s side, Augustin could see how the Torenthi monarch was managing to encourage this anger by his every word and gesture. It was not enough that Konstantine would stand against Roydon in his own castle. But by sitting back, letting all the other emissaries and sovereigns speak up, it seemed that Konstantine was pulling all the strings. And as he did so, he made no efforts to hide his affection for Roydon’s younger son.

However much Roydon might have wanted to lash out against Konstantine, his anger was held in check by the fact that he could not simply bellow at a foreign sovereign, particularly not one who seemed to have such powerful support at that moment. But Roydon’s son was another matter altogether and the breaking point came as Roydon pleaded caution to everyone at the table.

“This offensive comes too soon,” Roydon argued. “It would be folly for us to try and counter it. We cannot be ready for war by Twelfth Night. It would be impossible. There is hardly more than a month left. If we sent what men we could, they would be slaughtered.”

Konstantine smiled a long, slow smile at the room. Lord Glen, who had been watching him with his own contained fury, immediately knew something had shifted. But instead of speaking himself, Konstantine merely laid his hand on Augustin’s and turned that dry smile on the prince.

“I beg your majesty’s pardon, but I believe that is not entirely true,” Augustin said, speaking for the first time since the meeting had formally begun.

Glen Braden’s glance shifted swiftly toward his brother-in-law, followed by the quizzical looks of everyone else in the room. Augustin’s father turned his eyes on his son in dread.

“I have been recently informed by Archbishop Burne that he has decided to support the noble cause of protecting these Christian lands. He has already moved his ecclesiastical troops to the Southern Sea in anticipation of your highness’s desire to aide our allies.”

“The troops are already at Southern ports?” Lord Broylon said, his eyebrows raised.

“Furthermore,” Augustin went on, meeting his father’s eyes with a new boldness, “there are troops to the north prepared already to march in the winter weather.”

“Whose troops?” Lord Glen asked.

“Claibourne, Cassan, Marley,” Augustin replied evenly, his eyes still fixed on Roydon. “There are others. They only await your highness’s decision.”

“You have massed troops for this war?” Glen asked, his voice almost a whisper, galled by the impunity of Augustin’s action. “You are behind this?”

The whole room stood still. It felt as if everyone had stopped breathing. But Roydon recognized when he had been beaten. “You have anticipated… well, Augustin. Our southern and eastern neighbors will be relieved to have the archbishop’s troops come to their aide.” A look silenced whatever objection Lord Glen was about to give. “I am cautious about this conflict, my lords. But if my lords and my archbishop counsel otherwise, then perhaps we must fight.”

Two pairs of gray Haldane eyes met across the table. Fury boiled beneath the elder pair, success beneath the younger. But while father and son might have spent all day in their contest of wills, Konstantine was nearly giddy at the victory he had won and could not help but interrupt the moment, as if he had not noticed how much tension lay across the table.

“King Roydon,” he said, “as we seem to have come to some agreement, I propose we begin coordinating our efforts immediately. What troops I may send are also already on their way south and west.” He glanced at Prince Guy, who seemed utterly shaken by the sudden turnaround in his nation’s fortunes. “May I suggest a war council be convened at the earliest possible moment?”

“My general, Lambert, has accompanied me here today,” Nerasina said. “I am the ambassador, but he is the one with knowledge of our troops. He should be included in any discussions.”

“I am well enough versed in my father’s troops, but might I be allowed to return home first by portal?” Jonham requested. “There are others who should sit on this council.”

Prince Guy now looked almost giddy with joy. “But perhaps such a council could meet tonight? The earliest possible moment would be best.”

Lord Glen looked dismayed by this sudden turn in events. Roydon looked like the anger was going to boil over from him any moment. But around them, the various leaders briskly carried out plans for convening a war council.

Inside, Roydon could not stop his anger from churning. How dare his son presume to command troops? How dare this Torenthi bastard presume to convene a war council in his castle? Was this no longer his land to command?

Most galling was the way Konstantine kept allowing his hand to lay on Augustin’s. The Furstan had no hesitancy about turning his eyes to meet his son’s and his son had no hesitancy in meeting them. That these two had been lovers was no surprise to Roydon. Everyone else at the table, Lord Glen included, was doing a studious job of ignoring the glances, the touching fingers, the general affection between the two men. But Roydon could not believe his son had come there to rub his face in this relationship. How dare he? If this had been anyone but his own son, he might have stood right then and struck him down.

But it wasn’t anyone else; it was his own son. As such, it pained him more than words could possibly express.

As the group came to agreement about when to convene later, many of them took their leave in anticipation of an even more intense meeting later that night. Konstantine stood, saying his formal goodbyes. Augustin was never far from his side.

But as the last of them left the room, Roydon called Konstantine back.

Short on the Torenthi king’s heels, Augustin returned to the room, steeled for conflict. He was well aware of Konnie’s emotional state at that moment. There was a bond between them, no matter what else might change. And through it, he felt the smug joy of victory and the almost cruel anticipation of the confrontation.

Augustin shared at least the happiness that they would fight this war rather than stand down and let the Moors sweep over them. But nothing in him looked forward to the confrontation he was about to have, many of the leaders still out in the corridor and able to hear. He cringed at Konnie’s enjoyment of such a difficult situation.

Indeed, as soon as Augustin returned to the room, his father, gray eyes wide, began screaming at him.

“I called for Konstantine and you come back into the room. Why is that? Are you one in the same?” Roydon asked.

Konstantine, smiling slightly, laid a hand on Augustin’s arm, but neither of them said anything. In the hall, many of the dignitaries and leaders turned heads. Still at his king’s side in the council chamber, Glen Braden looked embarrassed at Roydon’s desire to take up this subject.

“How can you possibly be my son and shame me so before my own court. Not just my court, but most of the leaders of the Eleven Kingdoms!”

Roydon was not quiet as he spoke. Konstantine unabashedly let his hand run up Augustin’s arm and that merely angered him more. Roydon grabbed his son by the other arm, wrenching him out of Konstantine’s grasp.

“Father!” Augustin protested, pulling away.

“How dare you come here and rub this in my face,” Roydon said, staring his son closely in the eyes. “You dare to bring this sin, this abomination, into my royal chambers?”

Augustin’s eyes darted down to the ground. He was torn between straightforward fury at his father and sympathy for his father’s opinion, filled with self-loathing. “Sire, believe me when I tell you I never meant to do anything to…”

“And now you presume to give me excuses?” Roydon’s sharp words cut him off.

“Sire, I don’t presume any…”

But as Konstantine took a step toward the Haldane prince, laying his arm at his back once again, the Furstan monarch drew Roydon’s ire and made Augustin break off his protestations.

“Sweet Jesu, Konnie,” Augustin practically hissed at the presence behind him. “Just what are you trying to prove?”

But Roydon had at least enough presence of mind not to directly attack the Torenthi monarch, no matter how much he might have wanted. “You may have gotten your war,” he said to his son. “Be it the deaths of men under my watch! But mark my words, Augustin Camber Haldane, you will never lead this war. Never.”

And with Lord Glen scurrying after him, Roydon marched out of the chamber, passing by a startled Prince Guy without a word.

Augustin shook off Konstantine’s touch. “Konnie,” he complained.

“He wasn’t serious, Gus.”

Augustin couldn’t take this any more. Had Konstantine always been this thick and he had merely not noticed it? Was he given such a wide berth in Torenth that he could read people this poorly?

“What do you mean, he wasn’t serious?” Augustin yelled.

“Only that he’ll rethink,” Konstantine said. “He’s just angry now, because we’ve beaten him. Kings aren’t accustomed to losing fights. Trust me.”

“You don’t know that, Konnie!”

“Stop being so agitated. You’re causing a scene.”

“I’m causing a scene?” Augustin asked, incredulous, though he did lower his voice. “How can you be so dense as to not recognize the danger you are forcing me to skirt?”

Konstantine did not take being called dense very well. “Be glad I bear such great love for you, Gus,” he said. “From none other would I allow such an insult pass.”

Augustin sighed. “I’m sorry, Konnie. I’m just overwrought. Please, I need to get back…”

“To your new wife?” Konstantine asked. “Or your new following?” An edge of bitter jealousy permeated his voice.

“I can’t do this now,” Augustin protested, allowing himself to sink down into one of the large armed chairs around the council table.

Konstantine was at his side in a moment, hands sliding down his chest. “Yes, well, Nikolous will be wondering what’s keeping me as well. With this war council, I’m sure it will be easier to get messages back and forth. And we’ll find time to steel away on our own later.”

“Of course,” Augustin mumbled, letting Konstantine’s familiar touch slide away from him.

In fact, Thayer Coris had come into the room, searching for Augustin, whom he found slumped in a chair, Konstantine leaving him. The two exchanged a look filled with mutual suspicion, for Konstantine didn’t trust any who became close to the love of his heart and Thayer did not trust the Torenthi king’s hold over his prince.

Now, when a new hand rested on the prince’s shoulder, Augustin immediately sensed the difference in the presence.

Come on. There’s no privacy here. He’s gone – back to the portal. We’ll go to my quarters.

Augustin allowed Thayer to lead him away, back to his quarters. In the sanctity of that space, he let himself slump down in Thayer’s sitting room. His legs immediately crossed. He flexed his fingers then ran them through his black hair. He wasn’t sure what was weighing on him the most. So much had happened. On the one hand, there was stress of his wedding the day before. And since, his meeting with Konstantine had been filled with tension, at least for him. He had felt such desire for him, yet at the same time, such disgust. He was tired of Konstantine and his games. The meeting was yet another stress. Just being there was difficult enough. But then his father’s outburst at the end had unsettled him profoundly.

Galina was there, suddenly, at his side, offering a cup of steaming tea, which Augustin accepted gratefully.

“How did things go today?” she asked, looking between the prince and her husband.

“Both well and not well,” Thayer admitted. “We have got our war. We are going to aid Bremange as soon as possible.”

“What did not go well?”

“Konstantine,” Thayer said simply. “He pushed Roydon too far.”

“How?”

“Bloody Konstantine!” Augustin swore. “Damn him.”

“He insisted on making a show of their relationship before the king. Roydon become so furious he swore to Gus that he would never allow him to lead the armies.”

Galina nodded, understanding. “King Konstantine is perhaps, imprudent on occasion.”

Augustin wanted to pound something. “He’s more than imprudent!” he complained.

A knock came on the door, and Galina returned momentarily with Conner McLain and Simonn d’Errial. Both looked eager for news, though they already knew the best and the worst of what had happened. Lord Simonn had already sent word back to his d’Errial lands so his men could start moving south toward the ports. It had to go overland, so it would be a little while before they could set out. Other allies had already sent similar messages on to their troops.

As he spoke with these allies, still on his side despite his father’s continued shunning, Augustin resisted the temptation to despair. But he could not resist complaining.

Thayer, as always, was unflappable. He kept calm and projected that repeatedly to Augustin, helping him keep what balance he had. But everyone had to admit that it was a discouraging development.

“It is you we want to lead those armies,” Conner told him. “Our support won’t waver.”

The promise relieved Augustin somewhat.

 

Chapter Nine

With Father Corey’s return to Rhemuth, Gwen McLain found herself with at least someone she could rely upon. Probably the first thing he did was scold her repeatedly over the amount of energy she had expended over the last weeks since he had been gone, first to heal the archbishop and then on to Dhassa to deal with a number of other patients. When he returned, he had found the young Sister Michael Ann tending Gwen in her quarters, feeding her charge broth to Gwen’s protestations.

When Father Corey entered the room, Sister Michael Ann shot him a menacing look, which was quickly replaced by a much more grateful expression when she realized it was the other Rhemuth healer returned and not someone come to call on Gwen’s services.

Sitting down at Gwen’s bedside, he immediately chided her. “What good will you be to anyone if you give all your strength to Allard?”

But Gwen had news of her own. “Thank God you’ve returned,” she told him. “I’ve seen something that I want you to confirm.”

“With Allard?”

“Of course.”

“Not yet,” Father Corey insisted. “You obviously need to rest. When was the last good night’s sleep you had?”

“I’ve gotten sleep, Eduard,” she protested.

But he could easily see how pale she looked and how weary. Extending healing senses outward and laying a hand on her forehead, he looked to see her state.

“Don’t resist, Gwen,” he murmured.

As she rolled back her shields, he saw very clearly how hard she had been driving herself and how weary her body was as a result. She opened herself to the energy he gave her and felt relief as she relinquished the last vestiges of control over to her longtime mentor. Corey worried, for that sort of fatigue could easily make her susceptible to disease. There was little chance she would catch whatever longtime illness plagued Allard. That seemed to be in his very being. It was something he was born with. On the other hand, if she went to heal any with more contagious diseases in such a tired state, it would be too easy a matter for her to take ill as well.

Letting himself go deeper and read what she had wanted to tell him, Father Corey saw why Gwen had let herself expend so much energy. In the week after Augustin’s wedding, she had devoted herself to Allard’s bedside, determined to get at the root of his illness. And she had, miraculously, had a breakthrough. The day before, she had gone into a sustained Thuryn trance for more than two full hours. In it she had found something new, something neither of them had spotted before. It was hard to identify precisely, but Gwen would have said simply that it was something missing. Inside Allard, at the most basic level, Gwen began to realize that he was missing something.

The news was enlightening but also disturbing. They had always made such little progress in understanding Allard’s illness that Corey was relieved to have any new information. But at the same time they were Healers, not miracle workers. If someone had lost a limb, there was no way for them to grow a new one. If Allard was truly missing something in his basic composition, perhaps in his blood, then they stood little chance of simply being able to replace it.

Father Corey found the triggers within Gwen to send her into sleep, setting compulsions that she not awake until he returned the following day. Only this sort of healing sleep would bring her back to energy. Hopefully, that night would be enough.

When Corey returned the following day, he allowed Gwen to wake and get ready. Father Corey was always amazed by Gwen’s ability to go directly from being asleep to being awake and alert. In this sense, she was much like a soldier, always ready to be called up.

With her habit quickly thrown on, she and Father Corey went immediately to see Allard. The weather had finally turned to winter for good and there was a wet snow falling as they walked through the courtyard. It was too wet and clumped to look pretty falling and none of it was sticking, meaning it couldn’t be appreciated on the ground either. Gwen reflected that if it kept coming down into the evening it would almost certainly begin to stick. Good news for the children of Rhemuth but bad news for the troops getting ready to move. She grimaced. It wouldn’t be good news for her either, as winter always brought colds aplenty for her to tend. Nor would the damp chill help Allard’s condition.

As they reached Allard’s rooms, both Healers were gladly greeted at the door. Shedding their outer cloaks, they both immediately felt the difference in temperature. Both the bedroom and the sitting room fire blazed in Allard’s quarters giving the rooms a cozy, warm feel. But as Allard’s nurse let them know, Allard felt none of that warmth in his bed. They found him, trying to read, bundled into several layers of thick woolen blankets.

Gwynedd’s crown prince greeted them with a sort of sad smile. Father Corey, who had not seen him in almost two weeks, was shocked by his appearance. He looked like he had managed to lose weight in that short time. His eyes were ringed with dark circles, made all the more clear by his pale skin. It looked like he had been drained of color. Obviously, Gwen had, quite prudently, not allowed him to bathe in the winter chill because his dark hair was matted down and he simply looked unkempt. 

“Don’t even bother trying to say I look well,” Allard said, putting the book aside. “Nobody had brought me a mirror for days, but I do know how I feel.”

“Then I won’t,” Father Corey said. “Frankly, you look terrible.”

“It’s so much worse this year,” Allard complained. “I’m always bedridden by Michaelmas, but it’s usually not this bad.”

“Something does seem to be worse,” Father Corey admitted.

“Spare me your good humor, Father Eduard,” the prince said. “I’m dying this time.”

“We’ve thought you were dying before,” Corey cautioned. “There’s no reason…”

“Well, I won’t pass today, God willing,” Allard said. “But I don’t foresee getting out of this bed.”

Corey looked aghast at Allard’s grim assessment, but Gwen’s silence on the matter seemed to confirm it.

Does the king know? he sent silently to his protégé.

If you mean has he been told that this time it’s quite serious? Yes, Gwen said. But if you mean does he understand it? No, his heart refuses to accept this. It’s made all the worse by this latest row with Augustin and the fact that the war is coming and soon.

Someone will have to make him see, Corey pointed out, but any further thought was interrupted by Allard.

“As I’ve already said, I know what my situation is,” Allard said. “So there’s no need to speak so I can’t hear.”

“It was nothing to do with you,” Gwen said as she washed her hands in the basin and opened her case on the table. “Rather, we were worried about your father.”

“Father,” Allard said with a hint of disdain. “You’re worried he won’t accept this?”

“Of course,” Father Corey said.

Gwen removed several small vials and packets from her case. Taking a cup from the shelf, she began meticulously measuring and mixing several of the substances.

“More of Sister Gwen’s nasty concoctions?” Allard asked.

“More of my life saving remedies, yes.”

“I’ve never really adjusted to being a perpetual patient,” Allard admitted. “For that, Gwen, I am sorry.”

Gwen gave her cup a shake, inspecting its contents with a keen eye. Then she beckoned to one of the squires who hovered outside the bedroom door. “Don’t give me your apologies. The Healer expects a certain resentment from time to time. I can’t take it personally. No, save your reconciliation efforts for others.” She darted her green eyes toward him meaningfully for a moment before looking toward the entering squire. “Boil some water for me,” she ordered the young man.

Father Corey could not help but smile at Gwen’s authoritative behavior. He had known her all her life. She had grown as much in his care as any other’s. There was something about her made for this life. She was more than a prodigy. She understood things he had worked his whole lifetime to see, be he more than twice her tender years. Were he a different man, he might have envied her. Instead, he could only bring himself to feel sorry for her. Eduard Corey knew Gwen too well. She was not unhappy in this life, but nor did she seem to have the fulfillment she might have sought. He wondered, sometimes, had she loved Augustin and had that love spurned. The two had been the best of friends as youth, before Augustin left for Torenth. Even more, he wondered if she felt the vocation she had been ushered into. He himself had felt called by God to be a Healer priest. But he often wondered if Gwen had felt that calling or merely allowed herself to take the easiest way. In either case, she had a lonely existence. That he could not deny.

Gwen took the kettle from the squire and carefully poured some of the water into the cup filled with her concoction. Father Corey had already seen that it contained several things for lowering fever and a mild sedative. Then she set both aside and dismissed the squire.

“Father Eduard, come see if you can find the same thing I did two nights ago,” Gwen said. “Can you follow me?”

Corey nodded, joining Gwen as she settled herself on a chair at Allard’s bedside. “Relax now, Allard,” she commanded, laying a hand on his forehead. “You know how. Open yourself to me.”

Allard’s shields rolling back was Corey’s cue to enter alongside Gwen. Unlike Allard, he remained aware, but Gwen’s subtle touch took control of him as well, delving them both deep into Healing trance.

For a long time, Corey could only see what he expected. He had worked with Allard many times before. To a casual touch, the prince’s illness appeared to be pneumonia, serious but curable. But rather than attempt to heal it, Gwen instead went further into the trance, looking specifically at his lungs and heart. And then, suddenly, Corey sensed exactly what Gwen was leading them toward. There was, indeed, something absent from the prince’s physiology. There should have been something else there, some missing element. He couldn’t tell what it was exactly either. But the result was as if he was missing a whole organ.

When they emerged, Corey looked at Gwen in amazement. She had put Allard to sleep. Taking her hand from his head, she brushed back his hair then reached over him to carefully move the book he had had been reading to a side table.

“Well?” she said, turning her chair to face Father Corey’s.

He shook his head. “How you ever found it is beyond me. It’s buried deep. I’m not even sure what it is that he’s missing. But I am sure we can’t simply replace it.”

She sighed. “That’s exactly what I feared. There is no cure.”

“Gwen, I was shocked when I saw him here today. He looks worse than ever. Not since he was ten and succumbed to that terrible fever have I seen him so ill.” Gwen merely nodded. “How long does he have?”

“I might ask you the same thing. Whatever it is isn’t killing him directly. But it’s letting everything through. I fear if I simply stopped Healing him, the end would be quick. If I keep on…”

“Are you worried you’re simply prolonging a torture?”

“Not yet. But we could reach that point soon. He’s just degraded so quickly.”

Father Corey felt stunned.

“I’m going to wake him now. He needs to drink the medicine. I’ll set compulsions for him to sleep later. As it is, he can’t even get up without my changing the compulsions.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

As Allard fluttered into consciousness, he breathed deeply and looked up at the two Healers. Pulling himself up as much as he could, he said, “So how is the prognosis?” When the two faces before him looked grim, he said, quietly, “That bad?”

While Father Corey pondered how best to put it, Gwen broke the news with her characteristic bluntness. “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

Allard nodded. “I’m going to call Augustin today,” he said. “He needs to know above anyone else. Well, perhaps not father, but I’m not ready to deal with him yet.”

“No one is,” Gwen said. “But I suppose it will have to come eventually.”

“Damn it,” Allard said. “I did think I would get to be king.”

But rather than be offended, Gwen merely laughed. “Well, you shan’t be the only one disappointed.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” Allard said. “I’ve been anticipating seeing Gus. He’ll be overjoyed.”

“You misjudge him.”

“No I don’t,” Allard said. “He will be overjoyed. Don’t worry, he’ll have the decency to grieve as well. My brother is altogether too perfect.”  
* * *

Meanwhile, that utterly perfect brother was struggling with troop movements and provisioning plans. True to his word, Conner had kept Augustin closely comprised of the military situation. Augustin continued to be an advisor as the troops slowly began their movement south. Burne’s troops were in the midst of commandeering ships along the coast to take them to the other side. The Kheldish troops had set out already, braving the winter. It was hard going, but as they were well provisioned and in peaceful territory, it wasn’t impossible. Nor had it been deadly yet, though Duke Ewan seemed very concerned about that possibility.

Augustin was even more concerned about coordinating so many different troops with so many different fighting styles and customs. Even within Gwynedd and Meara different lords had different expectations for their soldiers. They doled out different discipline, issued different weaponry and trained recruits in different ways. All that was their prerogative, though Augustin worried it would make great difficulties for him. There had been a time, several centuries past, when fighting forces were made up almost entirely of knighted men. Wars had been smaller scale, fought by as little as a few hundred men on each side. But those days were long past. They would still muster a few hundred knights, but in addition, they would need a few thousand troops.

Augustin was a student of military history. But a large scale war had not been fought by Gwynedd in almost a century. In the last hundred years, there had been skirmishes in Meara and small border wars with the Connait. In Roydon’s youth, they had put down a small uprising in Mooryn. But not since Kelson’s time had there been a real war. By establishing a lasting peace with Torenth, Kelson had managed to put down the threat that had plagued the Haldanes since the restoration. Any other time, Augustin would have been grateful for that. But at the moment, Augustin could not help but be annoyed that there were no more recent examples for him to study.

Then there was the Deryni element. In Kelson’s time, known, trained Deryni were few. And while those Deryni had played a role in conflict, that role had been confined mostly to individual challenges by the Duel Arcane. Would that this war would involve nothing more than a Duel Arcane. The Moors had Deryni on their side, mages able to work weather magic and other useful tricks. But Gwynedd had never fought a war that involved magic. And about that, Augustin worried the most of all.

The blond squire who interrupted the prince was, he could not help but note, not yet grown into his clothes, which were, perhaps, made with the hope the boy would have grown more by the time he needed them. Augustin could not help a smile. He had been staring at Conner’s maps too long and knew he needed a break.

But he had not anticipated this message. As he let the boy lead him toward Allard’s rooms, his heart was weighted down much more than it had been in the last few days.

He had not seen Allard since his wedding so the sight of his older brother lying in bed so frail seemed came as a bit of a shock. It was hard to mask as well. He wished then that he had Thayer’s general stoicism so that he wouldn’t have given Allard such a look as he was sure he gave.

Gwen sat, resting with a book on her lap, looking perpetually tired. When she looked tired, Augustin had long noted, her freckles looked red and angry, shining for attention rather than complementing her smooth skin. “Your highness,” she said, as he entered. “I trust you won’t overtax my patient?”

The question seemed intended as much for the patient as the visitor. Allard couldn’t stop himself from making an indistinct noise of displeasure with the restraints Gwen kept on him. Augustin merely nodded.

“Then I’ll leave you both,” she said, standing up. “Allard, I’ll be back late, perhaps just before compline, to check on you.”

“Thank you, Sister,” Allard said as Gwen left the room, shutting the door behind her. “Gus, do you want to sit down?”

“Allard…” Augustin began, but he realized that his voice was already choked and tight.

“Don’t,” Allard interrupted. “I’m not dead yet, after all.”

“How can I not?” Augustin said, moving to the bedside. “Is it… as bad as all those worried faces outside imply?”

“Gwen has had a breakthrough actually,” Allard said with an air of forced cheerfulness. “Finally found the cause of my perpetual illness.”

Augustin drew in a breath, unsure what to think. “So, are… I mean to say, are you about to get better?”

“Worried about your precious throne, brother?”

“It’s not mine, Allard.”

“Not yet,” the prince said bitterly.

“Allard, don’t play games,” Augustin insisted.

“I’m sorry, Gus,” Allard said. “I always thought death would bring more serenity than this. But I can’t seem to stop myself from being angry. It’s a sin, I know. Gwen has had a breakthrough. A great big insight. And it’s something that can’t be Healed.”

Augustin caught his breath. “I’m so sorry, Allard.”

“Don’t be sorry for me. Gus, you have to reconcile with father.”

“I don’t know if I ever can,” Augustin said. “He hates me. He hates what I am. There’s no room in his heart for a son who lays with other men. Besides, he’s never loved me the way he loves you, Allard.”

“You were always mother’s favorite.”

“Megan was mother’s favorite. I’m no one’s favorite.”

Allard managed a small smile. “You’re Gwynedd’s favorite,” he said. “You have the charisma to be king. When you’re on a horse, or with a sword in your hand, you look like a legend, Gus. You don’t even make an effort for your men’s loyalty and look how they flock to you. Look how you’ve won over Thayer Coris. You have the strength and the courage and the virtue. You have the stamina and the skills. Somehow I think He always meant you to be king.”

Augustin looked at his brother. They had never been close. Some of it had been circumstance. While Augustin was at play in the yard, training as a page, learning to shoot and ride and hold a sword, his brother was often confined to his room. While Augustin was surrounded by other noble boys his age and the lords at court, Allard was often surrounded by surgeons and Healers and nursemaids. He had a nurse long past the time when Augustin had outgrown his though he had been the younger brother.

Some of their distance had merely been typical sibling rivalry as well. But now, Augustin realized, much of it had been this jealousy they bore each other. 

“You sound envious,” Augustin said flatly.

“I am.”

“I always envied you father’s love,” Augustin said.

Allard gave a laugh which turned quickly into a cough. “Aren’t we a pair?”

Augustin had waited so long for this moment. It had seemed inevitable to him for as long as he could remember. At times, he had longed for it in the deepest reaches of his heart. But now, suddenly, he realized that for him to be king, Allard would have to die. And he regretted all of it. It was as if he had not really realized it before then.

He tried to speak, but tears streamed down his face.

“We have a little time,” Allard said. “Gwen has assured me I won’t die today.”

Augustin nodded.

Suddenly Allard looked away. “Go away now, Gus,” he said. “I’m tired.”

For a moment, Augustin was torn. He wasn’t sure what to do. But then he stood up from the stool at Allard’s bedside. Looking around the small room, he turned his head and walked out.

 

Chapter Ten

“He refuses to see him,” Gwen said to her fellow councilors. “He won’t admit it.”

The mood around the table had been solemn as Gwen revealed how close Allard was to death. Father Corey now sat with him, as much in his capacity as a priest as a Healer. Augustin had been to see his brother several times. Other members of the court had also paid their respects, but the mood had been tense through these visits, particularly as the most needed visitor refused to appear.

Gwen had, herself, gone to plead with the king. He had refused to see her as well, but she was accustomed to pushing her way into rooms. Of course, it had been useless, her determination to ignore squires and guards was one thing. But it was something else entirely when faced with her own king, angry and yelling. He would not listen to what she had to say. He would not even let her get out the words that his son was close to death. So she had left him. If he refused to say his final goodbyes, then no one could force him. He may have been the king, but he could make mistakes like any other man.

“He refused to listen to you?” Oran asked.

“I am only a young nun to him,” Gwen pointed out. “Despite my ties to this body.”

Fenton snorted, but James shot him a forbidding look.

“Will he really allow Allard to die without paying his last respects?” Mariette de Chapellone asked incredulously.

“Unless he comes in the next few hours,” Gwen said, “he already has. Allard has no more than a day left.”

“So Augustin will now lead Gwynedd,” Mariette said solemnly. “Will Roydon accept him as his heir?”

“He has to,” Noel said. “With the support Augustin has gathered to him in the last months, he could have a civil war on his hands if he tries to pass him over.”

“And in favor of who would he pass over Augustin?” Oran d’Horme asked. “Megan’s son? His nephew Bevan? There are Haldanes aplenty in Rhemuth, but the succession begins to become unclear after Augustin.”

“I would add that Konstantine would be quite annoyed if Roydon were to try and cut Augustin out of the succession,” Nikolaus added.

Noel shot the Torenthi courtier a shocked look. “And just what would he do about it?”

“You misunderstand,” Nikolaus said. “I do not mean to imply that my lord Konstantine would do anything. But for Roydon to pass over Augustin could easily be seen as an affront to Konstantine. After all, one of he reasons Roydon dislikes his youngest son is because of his ties to Torenth. If he were to somehow deny Augustin the throne, Roydon might be insulting Torenth as well. It could endanger the alliance between the two kings.”

“Roydon already loathes Konstantine,” Noel pointed out. “What worse could happen?”

“Closing the borders. Stopping cooperation on the war. Even open hostilities,” James Killey pointed out.

“Konstantine wouldn’t,” Mariette said sharply. “Particularly with the war in the south, he can’t afford it.”

“I can’t predict what he’ll do,” Oran said.

Nikolaus nodded. “My prince is a strong leader, but he tends to weakness when it comes to Augustin. They’ve been quarrelling besides and it’s put Konstantine in quite a state. Frankly, I am worried what will happen if Augustin cuts him off entirely.”

“Make that when,” Gwen said. “Everything I’ve gotten from Augustin over the last weeks has indicated that he wants to break free entirely of Konstantine’s influence.”

Nikolaus nodded and looked gravely at Gwen. “Yes, I had feared it was thus.”

There was a pause in the room as released a stressed sigh and Nikolaus seemed to ponder gravely the consequences of this development. But while some of the others also seemed lost in consideration, several looked mystified.

“But don’t we want this unholy relationship between the two of them ended?” Lanthan Pryce finally asked. “Especially if Augustin is to become king, shouldn’t they break apart?”

“They should,” Gwen said firmly.

“But you don’t understand what this might do to Konstantine,” Nikolaus insisted. “He has always made poor decisions when it came to Augustin. He often ignores what he ought to do to follow his heart. I’ve spent so much of the last months striving to keep them apart, as much to wean Konstantine away as Augustin.”

“What are you saying?” Lanthan said. “If Augustin spurns Konstantine’s love, he will do something crazy?”

“Are you saying he’s obsessed with Augustin?” Oran asked.

Nikolaus drew back, shaking his head. “Strong language, Oran,” he said. “I don’t know what will happen. I simply don’t know. But I do know that Konstantine was furious at Augustin’s marriage to Eliza Holden. If he were to believe that the marriage was anything more than a convenience, then I would worry seriously about what his jealousy might do.”

In the close chamber of the Camberian Council, the purple tinted light shining over them, the councilors all reeled with the amount of work and possibilities before them.

* * *

Of course, while Augustin did care for his new bride, nothing had happened thus far that might make Konstantine jealous. On his wedding day, he had seen the ceremony and celebration afterwards as the greatest trials. Once they were over, despite Eliza’s move into his rooms, Augustin had made no efforts to consummate the relationship.

Eliza was pretty and young. And while she had been raised at court, she was still insulated from much of the scandals and realities of life. This is not to say she was ignorant or naïve exactly. On the contrary, she was intelligent and astute despite having been shielded from anything too unchivalrous.

Eliza knew, before she married Prince Augustin, of much of the rumors that surrounded him. She also expected that the marriage would have its difficulties. But she had seen the efforts he made on her behalf leading up to the wedding. And she had tried her best to reciprocate them. On the wedding night, she had waited nervously only to have him give her a chaste kiss and go to sleep.

Just before Twelfth Night, she had decided to confide in Galina of Marley who, in turn, confided in her husband that the marriage was still unconsummated.

Thayer was entirely uncertain how to bring up the issue with Augustin. He would rather have let it lie entirely. If he could have, he wouldn’t have brought it up. However, he knew well Augustin’s need of an heir. If Eliza were even just with child it would help boost his claim to the throne once Allard had died. Allard’s steep decline in health had become increasingly common knowledge around the palace.

So the subject had to be broached and done quickly. Thayer decided to enlist Conner’s aid, going to the Cassan duke after supper that night. Conner McLain sat overlooking one of the massive maps that had recently been drawn up to help their understanding of the conflict. Never in anyone’s memory had there been a war with so many potential fronts. There were so many passes through the desert and mountains in the south that they were reeling trying to understand where the Moors might attack. Their information was also so vague. They already knew the long front on which they had attacked Torenth. Now, they needed to understand where they would make their next move. So far, they could do little more than guesswork.

“You look serious,” Conner commented as Thayer joined him at the table. The room they had chosen was a library room in the schola. There was precious little space in the palace with so many courtiers there, arguing about the war. And Augustin’s lot were outcasts to the king. Still, they found a room to equip with maps and plans so they could talk strategy. It was a small space, but well insulated for winter, it’s walls covered in books, which seemed to work even better than tapestries to keep out the chill.

“Galina has just told me some disturbing news.”

Conner raised his left eyebrow. “News from Beldour?”

“If only it were so simple,” Thayer said. “No, news from our would be queen.”

It took Conner a moment to realize Thayer referred to Eliza. “What news?”

“I had thought to wait until my own son was of age before having to sit someone down and explain the realities of relationships between men and women,” Thayer complained, looking off away from Conner.

Conner raised that eyebrow again. “The relationship hasn’t been consummated,” he said flatly. When Thayer only nodded, Conner could not help but add, “You can’t be surprised?”

“Doesn’t he understand how much he needs an heir? That the whole purpose of this marriage was a means of proving he can breed? That if he doesn’t consummate it, others might try to have the marriage annulled?”

“Jesu, Thayer,” Conner said, “what did you expect from him?”

“Only that he would know his duty,” Thayer said, finally sitting down.

“No, don’t sit,” Conner said, standing himself. “I have a bottle of good Fianna wine in my quarters and you’re going to go fetch it.”

“I don’t really…”

“You’re going to go fetch it and cool off before we talk to Augustin,” Conner repeated. “He’ll be here soon, I’m sure. And I think some decent wine might help him do what he’ll have to.”

Thayer shook his head, but did as Conner had requested, despite the cold chill of the outdoors. Snow had already covered the ground, and footprints crisscrossed the courtyard. He had already told Galina he would deal with it. He assumed that she would pass the news on to Eliza.

Fianna wine in hand, he returned to the schola library room to find Conner reading up on military strategy and Augustin now the one pouring over the maps.

“Thayer,” Augustin said. “It’s about time. Come and talk to me about our latest tally of numbers.”

“We have other things we have to discuss first,” Thayer said. “I brought a bottle of good wine to do it over.”

“And how serious is it that you had to bring wine to soften me up?” Augustin asked good naturedly, looking up from the maps.

Conner took the wine and poured it into three cups, handing the first to Augustin, who drank down a long sip.

“Fianna?” Augustin said. “That’s a good vintage. There really must be some horrible news to be broken.” He paused. “It’s not Allard?”

Conner shook his head. “Not at all.”

“My prince,” Thayer said, “your wife spoke to mine. I don’t mean to be indelicate, but perhaps I must be plain spoken. Your marriage was not simply a means to gain the support of the archbishop. You must produce an heir. And with this campaign in the south, you must do it soon.”

For a moment, Augustin looked like he would argue with the sandy haired Marley lord. But then he seemed to crumple at the table. “Thayer, don’t,” he mumbled.

“We’re sorry, Gus,” Conner said. “But Thayer is right. If, for any reason, Eliza were to want to dissolve the marriage, she certainly has the connections to do so. And if anyone Truth Read her when she said the marriage was unconsummated, then they would know she told the truth. And then where would you be?”

“Did she complain?” Augustin asked quietly.

Thayer drained the wine in his own mug and poured more for Augustin. Then he pulled his chair up closer to the prince.

“I don’t think it’s a question of complaint, my prince,” Thayer said, laying his hand over Augustin’s. “But you do know your duty in this matter.”

Augustin pushed the maps out of the way and leaned his elbows onto the table, burying his head in his hands. “I can’t,” he mumbled.

Thayer moved his hand up to Augustin’s shoulder, keeping the physical contact he knew he needed to help him convey what he wanted. “You can, Augustin,” he said. “And more importantly, you must.”

Thayer stood, laying both his hands on the prince’s back, massaging his shoulders. “You can and you will, my prince,” he said.

Conner watched, fascinated. For several moments, as Thayer’s hands ran across Augustin’s neck, he was sure the attentions, both physical and more arcane, would have their desired effect on Augustin. It was a pleasure watching Thayer work like this. He understood people and understood this Haldane prince perhaps best of all.

But all of a sudden, Augustin’s shields slammed shut with an almost audible clang. Thayer pulled back and Augustin turned to face him.

“Stop toying with me, Thayer,” the prince accused. “You simply don’t understand.”

“I understood that you were prepared to do your duty by us, your highness,” Thayer retorted, his face solemn and set. “You will do what is required of you and you won’t act like a child.”

“Please, Augustin,” Conner entreated. “You have to understand how this jeopardizes all of us. You need whatever good graces you can get right now. If it were to come out that the marriage was entirely a sham, then think how the archbishop would react or your father.”

Augustin stood and paced for a few moments. “You know I’ve never…” he began in a small voice.

“Ignorance is no excuse,” Thayer said. “How many bridegrooms are virgins on their wedding nights?”

“Christ, Thayer,” Augustin said, almost laughing at the absurdity. “I don’t know that I would put it that way.”

For a long moment, silence reigned in the small book filled room. Thayer looked set and determined while Augustin looked like a panicked animal about to be captured by its hunters. After a few long seconds, Thayer’s eyes caught Augustin’s Haldane gray ones across the room and held them.

When Augustin finally looked away, Thayer spoke calmly as if none of the previous embarrassing scene had just taken place. “It’s dark and cold out. Why don’t we use the schola portal to hop back to the palace. It will save us a good fifteen minute walk outside.”

“I’m going to finish up a few things here first,” Conner said, looking at the mess of maps Augustin had managed to crumple in his frustration.

“Alright,” Thayer said brightly. “Good night, Conner.”

Augustin almost sullenly grabbed the bottle of wine and poured then drained the cup one last time before allowing Thayer to lead him from the room and out into the labyrinth of corridors. The portal was guarded only by a young novice from the Servants of Saint Camber, one neither of them recognized, but who immediately knew them and let them go through into the room and over to the stone pattern on the floor that marked the portal.

Augustin dropped his shields for Thayer, letting the other’s mind wrap around his in control. Leaning back against the Marley earl’s chest, Augustin felt almost no lurch, only the tingle of the portal at his feet, as Thayer connected the energy of the two portals and deposited them in the library.

“Thank you, Thayer,” Augustin said as Thayer relinquished control.

Thayer allowed hand and mind to linger on Augustin for just a moment. “I’ll walk with you, my prince,” he said. “And I apologize if I was too harsh before.”

Augustin almost laughed. “I know I’m difficult sometimes,” he said.

 

Chapter Eleven

Twelfth Night dawned with a thick, wet snow falling on Rhemuth, piling up quickly. When Augustin awoke, his eyes drifted to the window immediately. Two panes of thick glass could not hide the fact that snow was piled on the outside. The room was cold and his first thought had been to stoke the fire before getting out of bed, but he found his head throbbing and knew that any energy expended on using his powers would only make things worse. Well, perhaps Thayer would oblige him later by helping out his hangover a little bit. After all, he had been the one who had brought that strong wine, not to mention forced this little encounter. Of course, there had been more wine later. Augustin had finished off a bottle of Vezaire port that had been in his quarters. It was too bad he couldn’t go see Sister Gwen to help out his hangover. If she hadn’t been so busy with Allard, he would have liked to see her.

But with that thought, Augustin’s mind slipped fully out of his sleeping state and he sat straight up in bed. Eliza slept peacefully beside him. He had made sure she would, afterward. He couldn’t bear to have to talk to her overmuch, feeling as strange as he did. The room felt even colder as part of the blanket slipped off his bare arms.

A knock came at the door and Guine’s face peeked inside, worried about what he might interrupt. The freckled faced squire was tentative about how he approached his charge’s new wife. But obviously his news was too important to wait.

“Your highness,” Guine’s voice cracked.

“It’s alright, Guine,” Augustin said softly, as to not wake Eliza. “I already know.”

The thought of Allard had told him immediately, with a sort of sense of emptiness, that his brother had died during the night. The realization was like a splash of water on his face. It not only woke him up, but put his headache out of his mind.

Slipping out of bed, Augustin laid a hand on his bride’s forehead, making sure that she would wake up not long after he had left. Guine waited for him outside the bedroom, looking nervous.

“Sister Gwen said you might already know, your highness,” the squire said. “She said I was to tell you that it happened peacefully, during the night.”

Augustin nodded. “And my father?”

“I don’t have any news, sir,” Guine said. “Sister Gwen said I was to bring you to see the… to see Prince Allard.”

“Of course,” Augustin said, already pulling on the black clothes Guine had laid out for him. The squire rushed to his side to help, but Augustin shooed him away, telling him to go warm the fire for his wife, and reassuring him that she would not wake up.

He donned the black heavy cloak and winter boots that Guine had carefully put out. Then, taking only a moment to clear his thoughts, he walked out the door and hurried toward Allard’s quarters.

Already a number of people were gathered outside. They shared a look of shock and sadness that Augustin did not know how to match. People parted as he strode forward. Sister Gwen stood at the door, obviously waiting for him. A casual brush of her hand connected their shields and formed an instant light rapport.

Megan is already inside, Gwen said. If you’ll pause for a moment, I might be able to help you with that headache.

Later, thank you, Augustin returned, pulling his hand away and going inside.

Allard looked as if he were simply sleeping, his features almost more peaceful than they had looked the last several times Augustin saw him. Megan stood at the bedside, her hand on her brother’s, her husband standing behind her, murmuring comforting noises in her ear.

As Augustin entered the room, she dropped Allard’s hand and turned immediately toward Augustin, burying her teary face in his shoulder. “What took you so long?” she asked.

“I didn’t realize until I woke up,” Augustin protested, his eyes glancing down toward Allard’s form. “What time…?”

But Megan merely cried, clinging to her brother.

“Lexie woke up with an early morning nightmare before the sun came up,” Lord Glen said flatly. “Megan went to comfort her, but when she came back to bed, she… felt it somehow,” the human Glen finished lamely. “When we came here, he was already dead. Father Corey gave him last rites.”

Augustin stroked his sister’s hair. “I didn’t know until I woke up,” he said again, unsure what else to tell her. Looking once more at Allard he added, “He is finally at peace.”

Lord Glen shot him a nasty look, but Megan said silently, He suffered all his life, didn’t he? But it still isn’t fair. He fought so hard. He wasn’t ready. Why would He do this?

“I don’t know, Megan,” Augustin said. “I really don’t know.”

Megan pulled herself away and allowed Lord Glen to return to comforting her quietly. Outwardly, Augustin couldn’t seem to do anything but stare dumbly forward. He wanted to cry, but he simply felt numb. He was sure that didn’t help whatever Glen Braden thought of him.

Before he could even delve deeper into his grief, he felt a familiar presence behind him and turned to see his father standing in the doorway.

For just one moment, as Augustin saw his father’s eyes drift down to Allard’s lifeless form on the bed, he had a moment of profound recognition. While Megan’s open emotion seemed alien to him, his father’s numbed expression matched perfectly his own feelings.

Megan now did much the same thing to her father as she had done to her older brother, going to his side and clinging to him through her sobs. The pain she felt was palpable, able to be felt even by the human Lord Glen. For a few moments, King Roydon acted as a father, soothing his daughter best he could, trying to say anything that might comfort her. But as Megan’s tears subsided and she became calmer, having let out much of her initial rage and despair about Allard’s death, Roydon now looked up and seemed to notice for the first time that his other son was also in the room.

Augustin, who had been hoping beyond hope that there would not be a scene now lost all hope as Roydon’s eyes met his. The frozen look in Roydon’s eyes vanished, replaced by fury.

“Father,” Augustin began, though he knew before the word had even escaped his lips that his father would not listen.

“Leave,” his father ordered, voice tight with anger. “You disrespect him by being here. You who wished his death.”

“No,” Augustin whispered. “Never that.”

“Sire,” Glen Braden ventured, “if I may please…”

But Roydon silenced his son-in-law with a mere look.

Augustin was unsure what would be best. He did not want to argue, quite literally, over Allard’s dead body. But nor could he simply let his father believe this of him.

But suddenly, Gwen was at his side, silently urging him to simply go. And unlike his father, Augustin knew he must listen to her commanding presence. Giving his father a small nod, he left the room. 

“There are things I must say,” Gwen said to Lord Glen and Princess Megan. “Things best said privately.”

Glen looked uncertain about what to do, unsure as he was of the authority of this tiny nun. But Megan nodded to him, ushering them out the door swiftly, giving her father a kiss on the cheek on the way.

Roydon watched as Augustin fled and Megan’s long face vanished behind the closed door. “You presume to dismiss my children?” he asked Gwen, his face tight lipped but his voice even.

“Sire, I beg your forgiveness, but I was asked to seek your audience privately by Prince Allard.”

“To what end?”

Gwen glanced around the room. “Again, I beg your forgiveness, Sire. But first, you must allow me to ward the room. The wards are already set.”

Roydon looked annoyed by Gwen’s move to finish setting the wards. It took little more than a few moments of concentration on her part as the formation for the cubes was already set up around the room. Though Allard’s body lay lifeless on the bed, Roydon did not even allow himself to look in that direction, preferring instead to follow Gwen’s movement in the room.

A protective glow settled over the room, and Gwen opened her eyes, gesturing toward the bedside chair. “Sire, will you sit?”

“Sister,” Roydon said tersely, “you may have the ability to command my children, but you go too far now.”

“Sire,” Gwen said again, “I did not ask for the talents God has given me. Nor have I ever asked for the position in which circumstance has placed me. However, I do have these talents and I do find myself in this situation. And as such, I can only do my best and what I think is right. I do not presume to command you, but please understand that what I tell you now is at the behest of your eldest son.” She emphasized the final words of her speech, hoping that perhaps he would remember that he had loved Allard and perhaps break out of this steely pose he had struck. Did he not realize that Allard lay dead beside him? Roydon’s shields were tight and his mind closed entirely to her. Not that she had ever been his confidant. If the king felt uncomfortable at being spoken to authoritatively by a woman young enough to be his daughter, Gwen felt even more uncomfortable. However, she understood that duty often called her to break these boundaries. And, in this case, Allard had asked that she do this for him. She could not deny him a dying wish.

When Roydon did not immediately respond, Gwen gestured again toward the chair and pleaded, “Please, Sire. I beg you, sit down and listen to me.”

Roydon acquiesced, but the grudging look on his face did not disappear.

Gwen pulled a chair from the corner and perched upon it, unable to lean back or really relax. “Prince Allard,” she began, “was sad that you could not come to see him.”

At Roydon’s indignant look, Gwen continued quickly, “However, he understood why your majesty was unable to come. Still, he felt there were things that needed to be said, things that had to be discussed before he could leave this world for the next. Unfortunately, he could not hold on to this life until the king’s grace relented.”

Gwen now paused. “Again, forgive me if I seem hesitant, Sire, but what Allard has asked of me will be very difficult.”

The look on Roydon’s face had gone from displeasure at Gwen’s insolence to a look akin to fear. “Sister, what has my son asked of you?”

“Merely that a conversation that was not able to take place before his death take place now,” Gwen said. “Allard understood that you would not come until his death, and if that was what it takes, then the things he had to say would have to take place then.”

The look of fear on Roydon’s face had intensified. “What are you going to do?” he asked, in horror, looking for the first time at Allard’s body.

Gwen moved her chair again closer to the bedside. “I’ve laid a stasis spell over him,” she murmured, placing her hand on Allard’s forehead. “But I’ve left it open for this working. It required a great deal of preparation on both our parts. But I am ready to invoke the spell.”

“Wait,” Roydon said. “What exactly are you going to do?” The fear in his voice came through quite clearly, his bluster gone now. Gwen was relieved that he sounded so human, so vulnerable.

“There is no danger to you,” Gwen assured him. “The warding I’ve set will make sure of that.”

“And what of the danger to you, Sister?” Roydon asked desperately.

“I thought I made myself clear, Sire,” Gwen said. “God and circumstance have placed me in difficult positions and I can do nothing but try my best to live up to what He might want of me.” She closed her eyes and positioned both her hands against Allard’s temples. Then, invoking the spell, she set the working into motion.

The drain on her power was immediate. She had never heard of anyone actually performing this ritual. Certainly, she had cause to wonder if anyone but a Healer could breech death this way. Feeling her breath quicken, she struggled to bring the spell to life. She knew it would happen, but the difficulty surprised her. She felt as if her own body was pulled away from her, as if her life, despite the fact that she continued to breathe and her heart continued to beat, was slipping away from her.

Pulling herself deeper, Gwen found the means to invoke what she wished. Outwardly, she shuddered so much that an observer might have thought she was having a seizure. Roydon, already shaken, drew back in his chair and stiffened.

“Gwen?” he asked hesitantly.

But the voice that responded to him was certainly not that of Gwen McLain, though it came from her mouth. Allard’s body did not stir, but the deeper pitch that escaped Gwen’s lips sounded remarkably like the Haldane prince’s. “Father?”

Roydon drew in his breath, afraid even to let it out. “Allard?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

Roydon drew in his breath sharply. Suddenly, the numbness he had been feeling over the death of his son dissipated. Rather than the tightly wrapped shields, he was suddenly a floodgate of emotion that, had not the room been warded so well, might have disrupted the deep trance Gwen needed into order to maintain what she did.

“My son,” Roydon said, tears now flowing from his eyes.

“Father,” the voice that was not Gwen said. “I am sorry to leave you like this, because I know the pain that it causes you – for me and for your succession. But I hoped this might ease things a bit since we didn’t get to talk before.”

“How?” Roydon asked, his voice breaking. He glanced between Gwen’s tiny form and his son’s lifeless body, unsure where to look.

“I am not… entirely free yet,” Allard’s voice said. “Gwen understands these things much better than I ever could. She… has talents beyond what I might have imagined.”

“I’m so sorry, son,” Roydon said, pleading. “I’m so sorry. I was blinded to your suffering. I was selfish. I thought only about myself. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me for not coming to see you.” The king wept loudly.

“Of course I can forgive you,” Allard’s voice said. “Is there any question of that? What grudges have I left to hold on to? What purpose would that serve?”

Roydon’s sobs intensified now. He bent over his son’s body, laying preserved on the bed. He gripped his son’s hand, which lay outside the heavy woolen blanket over Allard’s body. That hand was cold and the sensation of it made Roydon cry even harder.

“But father,” said the voice in Gwen’s throat, “you also have to let go of your grudges.”

Roydon did not look up from his position.

“Father, you have to forgive Augustin,” the voice urged.

The emotional struggle that plagued Roydon would have been obvious to anyone in the room. “I can’t,” Roydon said, his tears subsiding for a moment as he looked up, once more assuming a little of the rigid stance he had affected before.

“Father, you have to,” Allard’s voice said. “I could list for you all the practical reasons, because there are many of them. I could also remind you of duty and how it must take precedence over our own desires.”

“Duty?” Roydon said. “It is he who doesn’t know duty! My son, it is you who should have been my successor.” Tears returned to Roydon’s eyes as he faced that Allard could never succeed him now.

“Father, don’t you see?” Allard’s voice pleaded. “You have to forgive him. Forget duty and practicalities. You cannot hold on to this bitterness. Don’t you see how it eats you alive? How it ages you? Father, doesn’t He abhor resentment and promote forgiveness?”

“You talk to me of sin?” Roydon said. “Your brother’s sins…”

“Father, it’s not a challenge of who has sinned less,” the voice from Gwen pleaded.

“You are the one who was fit to rule,” Roydon said.

“Father, I cannot hold on much longer. The strain on Gwen is great. And I am called away besides. Please let me go in peace, knowing that Gwynedd will not be torn apart with this petty feud.”

“Petty?” Roydon’s voice was challenging.

“Petty, yes,” came the response from Gwen. “Father, please, I must go.”

Roydon cried openly again then. “No,” he pleaded.

“Father, goodbye. Promise me you will let Augustin succeed you. Promise me.”

Roydon again grasped his son’s chilly hand. “I promise,” he said quietly.

“Everything is clearer now. No more bitterness, Father. We will meet again, in the kingdom of heaven.”

Roydon still could not bring himself to say goodbye. But one last time, that word slipped from Gwen’s lips in a voice not entirely hers. Bent as he was over his son, Roydon did not see the violent shudder that went through the young nun as her body slipped into unconsciousness and slumped over the bed as well.

When Gwen came to, she was positioned more comfortably, laying back in the padded chair, her head resting against a pillow. Before even opening her eyes, she took inventory, checking her physical functions first and then her shields and psychic functions. Finding them intact, she sat up and opened her eyes to find Roydon sitting quietly, solemnly, watching her.

He no longer sobbed with tears, but his face was still red and fatigued from crying. Gwen could feel his grief now, there beneath strong shields, but there, not numbed. She breathed a silent sigh of relief as the memory of what had passed between father and son returned to her.

“How long?” Gwen asked.

“Perhaps an hour,” Roydon said. “I was going to break the wards down and go get Father Corey if you didn’t wake soon, Sister. I would have done it even sooner, but your setting for the wards was a little unusual.”

She nodded. “Yes, well, so was the work I had here today.”

“Thank you for that,” Roydon said, nodding. “You have no idea what that meant to me.”

“I have an idea,” Gwen said. “If you’ll give me another few moments to recover, I’ll take the wards down myself.”

“They’re probably quite perplexed at our absence,” Roydon commented, as lightly as he could imagine.

“Don’t worry, Eduard knew what was planned,” Gwen assured him, now sitting up entirely. “I’m sure he has allayed their fears.”

Roydon merely nodded. “But we should get back. There is… work to be done.”

Gwen nodded. “There are places I must go also.”

 

Chapter Twelve

Only a few days later, Gwen McLain sat in the chambers of the Camberian Council, giving her report of Allard’s death and the subsequent events. The mood was somber, for reports had just come of two attacks in the Forcinn and everyone’s mind was on war. Of particular concern was the fact that the caliph seemed to believe that the Moors could win this war on multiple fronts. They already held a front along the Torenthi border, but to open two more was unthinkable. It bespoke a strength that even all the Christian kingdoms united would be hard pressed to match.

After having given the whole council a cursory reading of the events surrounding Allard’s death, they clamored to discuss the implications. To some of them, the most startling was Gwen’s very complicated working that seemed to breach the barrier between life and death.

“Where did you learn of such a procedure?” Lanthan insisted, shocked as he was at the feats Gwen seemed able to achieve. None at that table were unaware of her considerable abilities. One of her strengths seemed to be her ability to intuit ritual and magic, sometimes from simply knowing that such a thing was possible.

“I read something about it,” Gwen said simply.

“Read? Where?” Mariette asked.

“One of the fragments we have from Jodotha,” Gwen said. “There was a bit more in a commentary attached to one of the volumes sent by my brother Fergus in Transha. He discovered a caseload of old Deryni volumes, particularly Healing based texts.”

Lanthan was the council’s resident scholar and immediately looked dismayed that Gwen might have some arcane knowledge he lacked. “Why didn’t you tell us you had found more of the ancient texts?”

“There was very little new,” Gwen said defensively. “Most of what was there was of interest primarily to myself. The volumes seem to have belonged mostly to my ancestor Dhugal MacArdry McLain. Though the volume of Jodotha has notes made by a completely different hand. Not Dhugal’s wife either. I haven’t had much time to speculate whom it might have belonged to.”

“Wasn’t such an act dangerous?” Noel asked.

“It was,” Gwen conceded. “But, as my brother Conner has pointed out, Allard always did ask too much of me. The price was… high. It has been the better part of a week, but I still feel… drained. Still, it was worth it. Roydon was ready to try and cut Augustin out of the succession, just as we had feared. Fortunately, Allard secured a promise from his father that he not cut Augustin out.”

James nodded gravely. “I think there is some hope as well that Allard’s words might help heal the rift between father and son.”

“There is no time,” Nikolaus objected. “Augustin leaves for the Forcinn in a matter of days. Then, until such time as locations have been secured and portals either found or created, he will be out of direct contact with Rhemuth. It could be several months.”

Gwen sighed. “I have hope that another Haldane will help bridge their divide.”

A murmur went around the table.

“And who…?” Lanthan asked.

“Eliza’s child,” Gwen said. “It is too soon to know for sure that she will deliver. This early, only a few days in, so many things can happen. She would not even know if not for me. Augustin asked me to see. I think he was… anxious that she conceive quickly.”

Fenton Gregory gave a snort, but the news was so happily received that his somewhat disparaging attitude was quickly drowned out.

“A new Haldane,” Oran said.

“Yes,” Gwen said, a smile rising to her face. “And a new crown prince, strong enough to unite his people and reform Gwynedd.”

“Strong enough,” James Killey said, leaning back in his seat. “Strong enough we pray to defend the whole of the Christian world from infidels.”


End file.
